


Reflections

by trepkos



Series: Altered States [4]
Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Timeline, Amnesia, Angst, Apocalypse, Birthday Presents, Caritas, Dreams, Gem of Amarra, Genital Torture, Goodbyes, Guilt, Home, Homecoming, Hotels, Humiliation, Humour, Hurt/Comfort, Karaoke, M/M, Paranoia, Party, Rescue, Revenge killing, Road Trips, Rough Sex, Slash, Tattoos, Torture, Vows, Weapons, delayed gratification
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-17
Updated: 2011-08-17
Packaged: 2017-10-10 14:50:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 166,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/100965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trepkos/pseuds/trepkos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spike goes on a mission.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Down the Rabbit Hole

**Author's Note:**

> I have chosen not to use warnings because I'm not really sure which are appropriate, but the tags should tell you what you need to know.

It was mid-January, and the Christmas rituals were over.

This was something of a relief to Spike, though his second Christmas at the farm had been less of an ordeal than his first. Last year he'd stayed holed up in the cabin for most of the event, claiming he had a stomach bug. He just wasn't used to spending time in a house teeming with warm bodies of all ages, and dealing with the sensory overload that entailed; and he much preferred having Riley to himself.

But this time he'd felt a tad more sociable. Just a tad.

They still didn't really know what to make of him, but they'd been polite – the brothers and cousins and monkeys' uncles and aunties: well, apart from Al, and what a relief that had been. No one had complained when Spike, jumping at the opportunity to escape, had gone off with Al to play video-games, and left the grown-ups to their own devices.

The depths of winter had given Spike plenty of time for quiet reflection: too much, in fact. Coming hot on the heels of Riley's promise to him – that one day, he'd let Spike make their … whatever this was … as near forever as you could get – the family holiday season had made Spike realise how much Riley had to lose. Being turned was almost sure to alienate Riley from these people he loved, however hard he tried to stay connected to them. There'd be the picnics he'd miss; the daytime weddings he couldn't attend; he wouldn't be much help on the farm either.

It had been hard enough covering up the fact that _one_ of them was a vampire. They'd got away with it simply because Spike's daylight avoidance and dietary fads had been the least noticeable things about Riley's new partner when Sarah and Josh were introduced to him. They'd probably just attributed his strange behaviour to him being English. But they could hardly fail to notice if their own son suddenly stopped eating normally and venturing out in daylight.

Bloody hell, what had he been thinking?

Couldn't do that to Riley; it wouldn't be fair, and it certainly wouldn't be practical.

It filled him up to think that Riley was willing to give up his humanity for him; even the offer was more than he had a right to hope for.

If the man got injured, or contracted some fatal illness, well, that would be another matter. At least Spike knew he'd got permission to turn him, if he were unconscious and at death's door. But Spike resolved to let the matter drop if Riley mentioned it again anytime soon; put it off indefinitely; tell Riley 'next year', or, 'when we're both ready.'

Riley didn't deserve to live in the shadows, with only Spike and his kind for company.

Speaking of 'his kind', Angel hadn't bothered him much over the last month. There'd been so little word from the ponce that Spike was beginning to wonder how essential his services actually were. He was beginning to suspect that his 'job' was a sinecure.

And the irony of _that_ anagram wasn't lost on him.

When Angel finally got back in touch and asked him to investigate rumours of a particular magic doodad, it did nothing to reassure him.

"A mirror. That reflects vampires." Spike stared at the phone in disbelief. "You seriously want me to investigate an enchanted mirror?"

"Sure. Look into it," Angel said dryly.

"Hah, bloody hah. And I suppose next week you'll be askin' me to Fed-Ex the Holy Grail to you. Or, wait! How about Atlantis – want me to go lookin' for it? I hear it's been mislaid."

"I'm serious, Spike. If this thing exists it could be very useful."

"I don't see what you need a magic mirror for, pouf. You're the fairest of 'em all, ask anyone."

Spike heard Angel heave a sigh. He smirked. It was good to know he could still get a rise out of the Old Man.

"I don't want it for vanity, Spike, I just think it would be useful if I need to fool someone into believing I'm human."

"Uh-huh. Blonde, is she?"

"No! I mean, no, it's not for … that. For a case. Theoretically ..."

"And you really think this gizmo exists?" Spike oozed scepticism.

"Why not? Mages exist, hell, vampires exist. Magic rings exist, or at least one did – until I smashed it."

Spike winced. "You _smashed_ the Gem of Amara? You're not right in the head, mate."

"Well, my point is still valid."

Angel seemed to be having difficulty summoning the energy to argue the toss with Spike over the vexed question of his sanity.

Rather a disappointment, that.

Nevertheless, Angel went on badgering him.

"These things exist, why not magic mirrors?"

"I suppose if I find this thing for you, you're gonna smash that an' all, you big spoilsport. Reckon you'll get more than seven years of bad luck if you do."

Spike leaned back on the headboard and crossed his legs, settling in for a longer conversation. "So where 'm I gonna find this thing anyway? In Joan Rivers' attic, mayhap? Stuck to the ceiling in Neverland?"

Another audible sigh issued from the Vampire Detective.

"I'm not psychic, Spike, and I'm not in Cleveland, but supposedly this mirror is. That's why I'm putting _you_ on the case. Find out whether this thing's real, and if it is, see if you can get hold of it."

"'Get hold of it'?" Spike loaded his voice laden with cynicism.

"Is this a bad line? Last time I checked, you spoke a version of the English language."

"And the English language is a notoriously subtle and treacherous mistress." Spike winced again, this time at his own pomposity. "If you mean, 'nick it' then have the balls to say so."

"Well, you could … buy it." Angel sounded very reluctant. "If the price seems reasonable …"

"What, I'm your personal shopper now?"

Spike reached for his cigarettes, lighting one as he continued baiting Angel. "You know, I'm drawin' the line at buying your hair gel. Have to build my strength up before I can lift the ginormous vats yours comes in. And anyway, I don't think it's gonna be less than half a crown – that's your usual definition of a 'reasonable' price if I remember rightly."

"Quit it, Spike. Just … I don't know, call me if you find it and let me know how much you can get it for."

"What's in it for me?

"If you're successful, three hundred dollars plus expenses."

"A grand," Spike dead-panned. He waited for the explosion.

"Five hundred."

Shocked at the speed at which Angel had raised his offer, Spike still kept his cool enough to haggle. "Seven-fifty."

"Fine."

Okay, that was way too easy. He'd have settled for five.

"So, Forehead – when's my performance review?"

"Your what, Spike?"

"You know, the bit where you either tell me what a valuable contribution I'm makin' to your enterprise, or slap my wrists and send me for retraining. 'S what modern businesses like yours do, innit? You know, so you can decide whether I get Christmas bonus or a clip round the ear."

"I don't do any of those things." Angel's reply was weary.

"Why not?" Spike's suspicions were growing. "Always used to – well, apart from the bonus thing, obviously. Somethin' you're not tellin' me, pouf?"

"Like what? What do you want from me, Spike?"

Angel sounded distracted. Distracted! From talking to Spike!

Maybe he was losing his touch.

"I want to know whether the stuff I've been sending you – you know, the in-for-ma-tion and mystical texts, et-cet-era –" Spike pronounced every syllable very slowly, like an English tourist trying to find out what happened to the luggage without blowing his top. "– is it any good?"

"Yeah, sure, Spike."

"That's all you've got to say?" Spike tried to keep his voice level but he could hear a note of hysteria creeping in; that was always embarrassing. "'Sure, Spike'? That's pathetic. I'm a remote part of your team aren't I? I want to know if I've helped solve any of your ghostbustin' Scooby-adjacent mysteries, or just filled up one of your many closets with a load of novelties some bugger found in a Christmas cracker."

"It's good, Spike, it's all good."

"_All_ of it?" Spike spluttered. "It can't _all_ be top notch stuff. At least give me a clue, so I know which of my sources are reliable, or if any of them are in need of 'restructuring'. I mean, what about that codex I sent last month? Wasn't sure if it was the real deal or some knock-off."

"Which codex was that?"

Spike clenched his teeth, swallowing a growl that was rising in his throat.

"Angel, if I didn't know you better, I'd think you don't even look at a single bloody thing I send you. Anyone _else_ might suspect this gig's just some sort of salve to that bleedin' conscience of yours. I know _you_ feel bad about the past, but you missed the boat. I'm over it. And even if I wasn't, that stuff doesn't go away just by throwin' money at it. I don't need your bloody charity, mate."

"Look, Spike, I've got a lot on my plate now. My staff are threatening to quit, and I've been having – well, I'm havin' a really bad week. This business with Darla –"

"Darla?" Spike cocked an eyebrow. "What business could you possibly have with Darla? I thought you offed that stuck-up sire of yours."

"Yeah, so did – Hey! Show some resp–"

Angel heaved yet another audible sigh. "Look, I don't want to discuss it. What is it that you want from me, Spike? I'm very tired."

"Just, tell me whether you actually _need_ me on the payroll is all, you big git. Either I'm doin' a job that needs doin' or I'm not." Now deadly serious, and dreading the answer, he added, "Which is it Angelus?"

If Spike had thought his use of that name would get a reaction from his sire, he was mistaken. Angel just continued in the same grey-sounding tones.

"Okay, listen Spike. This is what my staff currently consists of. A de-frocked greenhorn Watcher, who's fine with the research but barely knows his haft from his axe head and can trip over a ghost's shadow. A vigilante who'd just as soon stake _me_ as the enemy. An ex-cheerleader with migraines – "

"Cordelia gets migraines? Give her my symp–"

"– and Harmony."

_ **"Harmony?"** _

Spike had just taken a drag and nearly choked on the smoke.

"She fills in part-time."

_ **"Harmony!"** _

"The point, Spike –" Angel was clearly anxious to avoid prolonging this discussion of his hiring policies. "– is that among this highly skilled and supremely competent band of little helpers, if you were to ask me who's the most expendable, I don't think the answer would be you."

"Well, thanks, mate, for that back-handed testimonial." Spike stubbed out his cigarette, half-smoked. "Gives me a lot of confidence, that does."

"Well, that's good then," Angel said blithely.

Spike hissed in irritation. The big idiot must have some kind of shield that made him completely impervious to sarcasm.

"Now if you don't mind, I'll –"

"Yeah, I know, you've got some brooding to get on with. I'll just carry on as normal then, shall I?"

Spike's acid tone made no impression on Angel's force-wall of self-absorption.

"You do that, Spike. Oh, and about the mirror – it's supposed to belong to a sorcerer. Could be all kinds of wards on it, so don't go putting yourself in any danger. I don't want Captain America coming after me when you vanish into Looking Glass Land in puff of smoke."

"Fine!"

Spike slammed the phone down, irritated with himself as much as with Angel.

What did he care whether his performance was up to scratch, so long as he got paid on time?

But he did care.

It shocked him how much he still cared what Angel thought of him.

It was stupid.

He'd killed two more Slayers than Angel ever would, and that still gave him a warm feeling in his guts. A hat-trick was out of the question, now – he'd resigned himself to that.

But he still had something to prove.

~~

The TV weathergirl had given Spike her personal assurance that the sky was set to remain heavily overcast all day, and Spike didn't believe such a gormless face would be able to lie convincingly, so he set out on his quest around noon.

Riley'd had a fence to mend at the far perimeter of the farm this morning, and Spike had already said his 'goodbyes' first thing. Nevertheless, he decided to go the pretty way: the way that took in Riley's location. The Kid – Spike couldn't help thinking of Riley as a kid; he seemed so unsullied by the world and its works – was waiting for him expectantly.

The ring must have forewarned him of Spike's approach.

Well, that and the sound of the Camaro tearing up the road towards him.

Spike took a surreptitious glance at the sky to check that there really was full cloud cover, then leapt out of the car and swaggered over to where Riley stood by the side of the road.

"Something wrong, Spike?"

"Just thought I'd swing by on my way to the Big City." Then – because the joke was too good not to recycle – Spike added, "Off to find the enchanted mirror that'll tell Angel he's the fairest of them all."

"If it says that, the mirror's a liar," Riley shot back at him.

"Hmm … too right," Spike concurred, sidling up to Riley for a kiss.

~~

"Not that I don't love it," Riley said, when he came up for air. "But we did this already. This job gonna be dangerous?"

"Nah. Shouldn't be. Just recon and a bit of haggling."

Riley broke away from Spike. He took to examining the tread on the Camaro's tires, and testing the pressure with his hand, while he tried to think of a way to say this that wouldn't put Spike's back up.

"You just seem … I dunno. Like you're distracted. Not concentrating. You will take care, won't you?" He stood up straight, took Spike's jaw in his hand and looked him in the eye. "Please?"

Spike twitched and pulled away.

"'Course. Always do. Why wouldn't I?"

Spike punched him on the arm in a way that did nothing to reassure him.

"Don't worry mate. Be back before you know it."

Then Spike got back into the car and drove off without further ceremony.

Riley watched with a sinking heart, until the Camaro was just a red dot on the horizon.

They were out of transmission range for the ring within seconds, but even when Spike must have been more than a mile away, Riley was still scratching at his skin for an itch he couldn't quite locate.

 

~~

The next morning as he was cleaning out the stables, Riley was relieved to hear Spike's ring tone – a tinny version of 'Hanging on the Telephone' – coming from his jeans pocket.

As it turned out, Angel's rumour wasn't as ridiculous as Spike had thought. Word on the street was that the vamp-friendly mirror was among the effects of a recently deceased demon sorcerer, all of which effects – along with the dead mage's house – were going under the hammer in three nights' time.

'Three nights' time' …

For some reason he couldn't quite put his finger on, that made Riley uneasy – and not just because Spike might be gone longer than usual.

As for Spike: he sounded upbeat.

"Gonna nip over there tonight – case the joint, see if there's easy access. If there is, I'm in and out, job done. If not – well, it'll be up to Mr Broody-pants to let me know how much he wants to shell out for it."

"'Case the joint'?" Riley twisted the ring on his finger. "You mean you're gonna break in? Try and walk off with this thing?"

He was trying to sound casual, but even over the phone Spike must have noticed his galloping heart rate.

"Bloke's dead, Riley, no one's gonna miss one poxy mirror."

Riley sighed deeply. "Where is this place, Spike?" He dug a pencil stub out of one pocket, and an old invoice from another, ready to take note of the location.

"Somewhere just outside the 'burbs." Spike huffed impatiently. "Look, I only got directions, not the postcode and map reference."

"I'd be happier if I had the address."

There was a pointed silence.

"What if you get caught?" Riley persisted.

"I know what I'm doing, Riley. You worry too much. You're not my mum."

"Yeah, I know."

He was trying to stay calm, but Spike's confidence was worrying him more each moment. There was no way the ring could pick up Spike's feelings at this distance, but it didn't take artificial enhancements to know that Spike was in a rash mood.

"Sorry," Riley said. "It's just … sometimes I wish I was there, watching your back."

"Well you're not, alright?"

Spike sounded what he would probably have called miffed: decidedly miffed.

"No one's watched my back the past hundred years and I've done okay."

Riley wanted to say, 'You didn't have a chip in your head then', but he had a feeling the reminder would just make Spike more annoyed with him. Instead he just said, "Sure. I know."

He rolled the slip of paper into a tight ball, one handed, and spun it with controlled venom across the floor.

"I can handle it," Spike insisted.

"Yeah, Spike. I know you can."

"Can handle you too," Spike said slyly.

"Hey, don't start that again …"

~~

The directions he'd been given were spot on. Spike found the place with no trouble at all. Not that it would have been easy to miss: all columns and crenulations and flying buttresses, it looked like some enormous folly standing on the crown of a hill, completely isolated. As if no respectable buildings wanted anything to do with it. There were a few twisted and distressed-looking trees around the edge of the property. The magical fall-out in the area didn't seem to agree with them one bit.

The house looked deserted, with shutters closed, and no light escaping between them; no signs outside to indicate that any kind of auction was planned. But then, given the nature of the sale, it wasn't surprising. Anyone who had any business knowing would find out where it was without seeing it on a billboard. The mystically-inclined would probably smell the magic – feel it tingling in the air – from half a mile away.

Spike drove past the house and parked a short distance away, then got out, taking a map of the State of Ohio with him as cover.

After a quick glance around, he wandered slowly, and by an indirect route, towards the building, pretending to scan the map with a pencil torch; turning the map around and following lines on it with his finger as he weighed the alternatives: whether to knock, or try the door, or just break in by a back window, the householder being dead and all.

But as he argued the toss with himself, partly distracted by the business with his props, he didn't hear their approach. Too late, he realised that he wasn't alone. He turned to see two security guards a few yards behind him. One thick-set goon shone a flashlight in his face.

"Viewing isn't till tomorrow night," he told Spike. "What are you doing here?"

Spike played innocent. "This is the right place then? For the auction? Viewing tomorrow you say? Sorry. I thought it was tonight."

"He doesn't look like he can afford anything here." The other guard played his own flashlight over the Camaro.

"Yeah, look at that pile of crap," the other concurred.

The guards exchanged glances and nods – as if they'd been expecting this exact vehicle.

Spike got and uneasy feeling in his guts. He began backing towards his car. "No need to be like that. I'll come back tomorrow, alright?"

"And this? Call this a coat?" The second of the annoying Herberts took three quick strides towards Spike and grabbed his lapel. "Looks like this was what was left after they made his car seats." He reached into the inside pocket and took Spike's phone.

"Hey!" Spike snatched at it.

The guard, still holding on to Spike's lapel, dropped the phone and ground it beneath the heel of his boot.

Spike tried to shrug out of his coat, but the more heavily built of the pair caught hold of his arm and wrenched it up behind him. Spike swore and thrashed, but it did no good. Then he tried the old 'relax and hope they do too' approach; nothing worked.

These guys looked dumb as posts but they were old pros, for all that.

Spike braced himself for a lance of pain from the chip and tried to stomp on one of their size nines, but he failed to connect.

"Quit it, _Spike!_" Number Two snapped.

Bugger.

With grim resignation, Spike asked, "So who set me up?"

Not that he expected an answer; but if it was Angel …

"Yeah who would do that?" the joker of the pair quipped. "You made so many friends in Cleveland, after all."

Probably not Angel then. Not that he'd really thought it was …

Must have been the weaselly bloke he'd paid for the info. He'd taken him for a few bucks at the tables a while back.

Spiteful little bleeder.

Seething, but unable to do anything about it, Spike was marched inside the building into a grandiose office, and brought before a small grey man, hiding behind thick, round spectacles. He looked like he belonged in a Kafka novel.

"What have we here?" The man looked Spike up and down.

"Found this vampire outside, acting suspicious," one of the guards said. He smirked, and nudged his colleague. "Shall we dust it?"

Spike felt a cold trickle of panic down his spine. "Hey! Not an 'it' if you don't mind."

"Dust it?" The bureaucrat looked him over once again. "By no means. The catalogue's a bit light. There's never as much in these places as one might expect. We can sell it along with the sorcerer's livestock."

Somewhat relieved not to have been summarily despatched, Spike scowled nonetheless. "What am I? A bloody prize heifer?"

He tried once more to wrestle his way out of the grip of his captors, but all he got for his effort was a warning twinge from the chip and a discreet punch in his remaining kidney. He subsided, snarling.

The man behind the desk went blithely on, as though his prisoner hadn't spoken at all. "I'll put it in as a late addition. Should get a decent price for it." He allowed his tongue to flick across his upper lip. "Might even find a use for it myself, if it doesn't reach the reserve."

The light from the desk lamp glinting off his spectacles, he whipped a small camera out of his top pocket and beamed pleasantly at Spike.

"Now be a good little doggy and say 'O-Pos'!"

~~

It was an hour to the end of the working day, and Lilah was bored.

Evil seemed to be going through a slack period.

There'd been so little to do last week that she'd started an evil online journal; she already had over a hundred readers. People seemed to think she was smart and funny. They were right, of course, but they just didn't get it. When she asked for advice on how to get a goat's blood out of her cashmere sweater, she actually wanted an answer, not a bunch of lame jokes.

She looked at the clock. She was sure no one would notice if she left early. How tragic was that? But just as she'd shut her terminal down, the phone rang.

Clicking her tongue in irritation she picked up. "Morgan."

"It's Files and Records."

Lilah wrinkled her perfect nose in annoyance. "I returned all those documents to you last week."

"I filed them," said the robotic voice of Files and Records. "It's my job."

"Then, what is this –"

"My line manager said I should be more pro-active, so I thought I'd draw your attention to item number 205 in the Cleveland Midwinter Auction Catalogue. I heard you were interested in Angelus. I calculated that you might have a similar interest in his progeny."

"You 'calculated' correctly." Lilah raised an amused eyebrow. "Is it online?"

"Yes indeed, Ms. Morgan."

"Give me a minute."

Lilah switched her computer back on and tapped her finger impatiently on the mouse while it went through its start-up routine. Files and Records seemed eerily content to wait in silence until Lilah demanded, "Send me a link."

An e-mail appeared in her inbox. Lilah clicked on it, and opened the picture.

She caught her breath. "This is one of Angel's …?" She cleared her throat as her mind dallied briefly with a visual. "I mean, Angel turned this hot patootie?"

"Not Angelus himself by our accounts, but he is of the direct bloodline, and acted as Angelus' … apprentice? Lieutenant, perhaps? … until the re-ensouling. After that, Spike, AKA 'William the Bloody', along with the vampire Drusilla, also of Aurelian stock, continued to create havoc all over Europe, Asia and the USA. With Wolfram &amp; Hart's tacit approval of course."

Files and Records sounded almost animated.

She went on, "They dropped off our radar a few years ago. This is the first sighting we've had of either of them in recent times."

"Hmmm." Lilah tapped on her teeth with a pen.

"He's killed two Slayers," Files and Records volunteered.

Was that an admiring catch in her voice? Files and Records was crushing on William the Bloody!

"I see you've made a special study of him," Lilah said knowingly. "He is cute."

"I'm Files and Records." Records suddenly became several degrees colder than usual. "It's my job."

"Yes, of course it is." Lilah smiled and put the phone down.

She stayed at her desk, pondering how she might use this new turn of events to her advantage.

Lindsey's attempt at using Darla to send Angel off the deep end was laughable. Privately, she thought of it as 'A Special Project for a Special Boy.' Darla was Angel's sire, but she was human, and a loose canon, and she didn't seem to be engaging Angel's attention in the way Lindsey had expected. What little confidence Lilah had in Lindsey's plan was rapidly trickling away, as she read through surveillance reports mentioning nothing about Angel losing his soul and quite a lot about an increased consumption of sketchpads and the softer drawing pencils.

That was scaring no one.

Spike, on the other hand … Spike was a former comrade in arms; an unrepentant warrior for the forces of darkness, and she'd have been prepared to bet that their relationship hadn't been platonic. The completely captivating features of William the Bloody in the rather poor quality photo were made all the more appealing by the look of desperate defiance in his eyes. She wondered whether he might not be a more effective lure to the Dark Side than Darla.

William the Bloody would certainly be enough to turn her evil, except: hey, already there.

She supposed it must have been the unguarded hell-mouth that had brought him to Cleveland. That was why Wolfram &amp; Hart had an office there. It was a much smaller concern than the LA branch: more like a satellite – and all its dealings with the outside world were conducted through LA, which was why this rather appealing cherry had landed on top of her evil ice-cream.

Without further delay, she contacted the Marketing Department and told them to make sure the photo of Spike was cleaned up and displayed prominently in the online catalogue.

"Send Angel Investigations an e-mail about it. Make it look like a circular but include William the Bloody's name and alias in the header. I want to be sure Angel sees it."

She phoned the Cleveland branch to let them know Head Office had a special interest in this particular item, and that it was not to be damaged.

Then she booked a flight to the Midwest.

Well, her broomstick was in for repair.

~~

It was a dream, of course, like 'This is Your Life' on acid, and without the annoying host. It seemed to go on for a very long time, and he just couldn't seem to wake up.

Drusilla and Darla floated through, in their blood-stained finery, and Angelus, of course, huge and roaring and puffing himself up. And then the grown-ups were gone. Just the two of them: him and Dru, left to their own devices – and what devices they were. Blood and tea-parties. Nothing wrong with it, and always something new coming along – the telephone, picture houses, jazz, and TV.

Even his first life – his human life – got in the mix here and there.

It wasn't all in order. The timeline was chopped about – memories of himself and Dru in Italy or Paris or New Orleans, interspersed with flashes of Angelus' casual cruelties and equally casual camaraderie. There was even a scene from that unfortunate meeting with the Master: the ferocious caning it had earned him from Darla, and the unexpectedly wonderful night that followed: the only really good time he ever had with Angelus.

But there was something else too: something he didn't understand at all – like bits of someone else's memory that had been patched into his own.

A farm.

When had he ever been on a farm?

A long-haired woman who wasn't his mother, but who treated him like a son.

And her husband – a tolerant old warhorse who wore a curmudgeon's mask.

A kid-sister, demanding and rewarding.

And a man: a man who gave him everything he'd never known he needed: a fighter, like Angelus, but better; warmer; more human.

What was his name?

It sounded Irish, like Angelus' real name.

O'Reilly?

No, not that …

These parts were the most intense and yet the most dream-like of them all.

Then he dreamed that he awoke to find those rustic characters standing around his bed. But their faces melted and changed, and in their places, stood The Master, Darla, Drusilla and Angelus.

He told them of his dream within a dream.

"And you were there, and you, and you, and you …"

Then he woke up for real, with cold wet stone against his cheek, and a crippling sense of loss.

He was lying on the floor of a stinking rotten hole of a cage, with his face in a shallow pool of water. More water trickled down walls coated with a growth of moss and mould; he could even see mushrooms growing in the cracks. There were no windows: only a candle on a shelf outside the cell, and Spike could see that his was one of a row of similar stone boxes, each lit by a single flickering light.

Where he was, and how long he'd been out for the count, he couldn't tell. He was cold and nauseous, and his head hurt.

What was he doing here?

It all seemed horribly familiar and yet somehow skewed: darker and wetter than he remembered it being. There had been bright lights, not candles; Perspex and tiles, not wrought iron bars and solid rock. There had been a scientist with a lab coat and a clipboard; she'd done things to him: cut and violated him; put something in his brain that hurt.

Or maybe that had been a dream as well.

Something mind-altering had been done to him, that was for sure.

Was he truly awake, even now?

He wouldn't have bet money on it.

Bizarre and unlikely though they seemed, the dream-scenes featuring vampires were the most convincing. Yes, he was a vampire, wasn't he? He must be. He could match names to faces as if they were burned into his brain, and when he put a hand to his face, he felt the ridges harden in his forehead, and his canines elongate, as his fear and anger at being held prisoner started to build.

Beyond that, it was hard to make a judgement call. Maybe he'd eaten one too many hippies in the Sixties, and was still lying in a field somewhere, out of his tree.

That was the best option.

More likely the scientists still had him, and this dank cell was in his head – part of the experiment.

The farming idyll?

It was the hardest to remember – and yet somehow, it was what he yearned for the most. If that was a dream, he wanted to dream again. If it was real, why would he ever have left a place of such warmth and safety?

He never would.

It must have been a drug-induced hallucination designed to keep him passive while they got on with their research.

But why the change of scene? Why had they replaced that comforting delusion with this rancid prison?

Perhaps the devils in white coats had done with him; sold him on, and this was real: a different level of hell.

Because now, there was a set of rusting but sturdy bars; demons to the left of him, demons to the right, and outside the cage, a small man with glasses and a business suit; a man who for some reason he couldn't quite grasp, he thought of as 'K.'

K had a vampire in attendance.

And a clipboard.

There was always a clipboard.

As Spike began to push himself into a sitting position, a mottled demon in the next cage took a sidelong glance at him.

"Waking up at last? Typical of you big shots. Might have known William the Bloody'd sleep late."

Yes, 'William the Bloody.' That was one of his names. He didn't want it bandied about though.

"Keep it down, will you?" he hissed. "They'll all want one."

But the vampire lackey tilted his head to acknowledge him, and he realised it was too late. He'd already been recognised as a member of the Order of Aurelius, and it seemed he commanded a degree of respect. Spike's spirits lifted slightly, with the hope of an ally.

But K had noticed the deferential gesture. He frowned at his assistant, and the vampire quickly stood to attention, looking straight ahead and not at Spike.

"This place won't get any stars in the Zagats' Guide," Spike commented to the world in general, as he hauled himself to his feet.

"Fill in the Customer Satisfaction Survey Card before you leave," the bloodless, bespectacled official said dryly. "Except – oh yes. We don't care whether you enjoy your stay. In fact, we'd have failed in our duties if you did."

He glared pointedly at his vampire assistant. Then he took a step towards the bars and indicated Spike with his pen. "This one is to be cleaned up and 'dressed' for the auction. Make sure he –"

Spike crashed into the cage-front, reaching through with both arms.

K took a swift step backwards, out of reach and as Spike hit the bars, he felt a blinding pain in his skull.

Well, that answered one question. The debilitating piece of kit in his head was no dream.

He staggered slightly, rubbing his jaw, in the hope of passing off his reaction as a result of the impact. It would pay him to keep his disability secret if he could. Demon life was cheap, but if he could take a human hostage without hurting them, he might be able to bluff his way out.

"We're sprightly today aren't we?" K said, mopping his brow with a handkerchief. He turned to his assistant. "He was quite docile when he came in – for a vampire anyway. Apparently he's a bit more of a handful than I first thought. We'd better get a collar on him, pronto. Any mistakes would be … unfortunate."

As K moved on, Spike – nursing the primordial ancestor of all headaches – retreated to the farthest corner of the cell to re-group.

It wasn't far enough to save him when, some time later, a stooge armed with a blow-dart appeared, and shot him full of sedatives.

~~

Some people like to take a cold shower first thing. Spike had never been one of them. Being woken by an unexpected deluge of freezing water came even lower on his to-do list. An icy torrent from a spray in the ceiling drenched him, then sluiced down the grooves in the floor, and into a drain.

He found that he was naked, but for a single item of the kind that invariably makes you feel your nakedness more acutely – a collar.

He looked up. The grey bureaucrat was outside the cage again. K had ditched the vampire Spike had been hoping to subvert, and was accompanied this time by a demon encrusted with barnacles.

Shivering and snarling, Spike got to his feet. He clawed at the band around his neck. It was flexible but felt metallic, and there didn't seem to be a clasp or join.

"Uh-uh." K shook his head. "Don't waste your energy." He threw a contraption of the same material as the collar onto the cage floor. "Save it to get yourself looking nice and … interested … if you take my meaning. Then put that on."

Shit.

Spike shied away from the object.

No way was he wearing that thing.

"If you wanted me getting warm fuzzy feelings, the cold shower was counter-productive," Spike stalled resentfully.

K smiled. "Got your attention though, didn't it?" The whimsical tone quickly hardened. "Get on with it."

Spike slid into game-face, kicked the item across the floor, and muttered, "Sod off."

K made a gesture towards the cage and said to his assistant, "Give our VIP guest a hand with his things, would you?"

"I was hoping you'd say that." The crusty demon leered as he swung the cage door open and shuffled towards Spike.

Without a second thought, Spike grabbed the demon by the throat and slammed him against the wall.

K made a slight movement, and an agonising pulse from the collar dropped Spike, choking, to his knees. Then the demon aimed a bony knee at his face, and then Spike was on the floor, getting kicked in the groin, in the guts – anywhere the demon felt like kicking him, in fact.

Nothing he could do about it.

Just had to lie there and take it.

For a while, K said nothing – just watched with mild interest, like an indulgent parent at the local playground. Then he said quietly, "Enough."

The retribution stopped as abruptly as it had begun.

Spike lay still on the cold stone; he'd bitten his tongue and there was blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth. He flicked a glance from K to his demon lackey and back, waiting to see what form the next attack on his person or his dignity would take.

K's hand was hovering near a sigil on his belt buckle, which Spike now realised must be the control for the collar, and when he glanced back at K's face, he saw amusement in those cold eyes.

He wasn't ready to beg for mercy: not yet. He watched that hand. If he knew when the next punishment was coming, he could brace himself for it.

But K knew a thing or two about partial reinforcement.

Either that or he was just capricious.

He moved his hand away and Spike felt himself sag with relief. He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them, K was smiling again.

"Don't you mind your employees damaging valuable merchandise?" Spike said.

"Valuable merchandise, eh? Is that what you think you are?" K tapped his pen on his clipboard. He appeared to be about to make some notes.

Spike took his eye off him for a split second, and then he was writhing in sudden agony as an excruciating jolt shot through him; and another; and another …

"Think you're pretty damn special, don't you, Mr Bloody Stupid William. But the attractive un-dead aren't hard to find. Good, reliable staff, however, _are_ hard to find and harder to keep, especially ones prepared to deal with scum like you. Besides, your kind heals quickly."

Spike was vaguely aware of the demon's grinning nightmare features looking down at him as he slapped the floor, and gasped for air – every muscle racked and contorted; his eyes felt as wide as saucers.

K tapped the sigil and the pain stopped.

Spike's chest heaved; the rest of him lay limp as a dead cat.

At last he was sufficiently recovered to speak.

But the repeated shocks must have temporarily de-activated the self-preservation centre of his brain. "Punishment collars," he gasped, trying to point to where he thought his neck was, though he had little control over any of his limbs. "Bit of a cliché?"

"The old ones are the best." K licked his thin lips. "But I make the jokes around here. Any more funny stuff from you and I'll leave this little gizmo on a variable setting for a few hours. In fact, I'll give you a little taste of that right now."

He tapped twice on the sigil, sending Spike to a world of torment.

He was screaming – he was sure he was screaming, he must be screaming – but no sound came from his paralysed throat. And K was still talking. Spike tried to catch the gist of it – his life might depend on it – but it was hard to do anything other than react to the punctuation – random intervals of shooting, cramping convulsions: the unpredictability making each one seem worse than the last.

"The fools out West think you're some kind of celebrity, so I'm sure you'll be gratified to hear that we can't just kill you. But providing that you're fit for sale in –" K looked at his watch: "– about 36 hours, I'm sure no one will worry too much."

Spike twitched and thrashed helplessly as every shock coursed through him. It felt like his teeth were being pulled out, roots and all.

He tasted metal, and despair.

"… so if – I'm sorry, what's your name?" K looked at his demon assistant, who muttered something that sounded like 'Grevlak'.

"If Grevlak here wants to have some fun with you in the meantime, that's just his well-deserved perks as far as I'm concerned."

A final shock – of greater length and intensity – had Spike arched and rigid in spasm on the stone floor.

"So get that game-face off you. It's not very polite."

K touched the symbol, and it was over: for now.

Limp and wrung out, Spike curled into a foetal ball. Now the pain had stopped, his demon face melted away whether he would or no, and he was left wide-eyed and shaking. He pawed at his neck.

"Up!" Grevlak commanded, and kicked him in the lower back.

Spike tried to struggle to his feet but when he got to his knees he found himself faced with what looked like a medieval weapon, birthed by a lamprey. It was pulsating, purple, and it stank.

With weary disgust, he realised that Grevlak's reproductive parts were being thrust in his face. He considered biting out of sheer bloody-mindedness, but that would just be asking for more torture, and anyway, his jaw ached from clenching.

He retched and turned his head away.

Grevlak laughed; a rattling of dry stones down a bottomless crevasse.

"Lucky for you, you're not my type or I'd have your legs spread and your face pressed into the floor in a second," Grevlak assured him. "In fact, if you give me any trouble, I might just do it anyway as a public service. Now get up – and I mean that in both senses of the word."

Again, Spike tried to stand, but Grevlak kicked his feet out from under him.

"I said, 'get up'," Grevlak repeated with a show of patience.

Spike gritted his teeth and said with grim humility: "Then please, allow me to do so."

This time he was permitted to get to his feet. As he did, he noticed that Grevlak had the same rune on both his wrist and his waistband, as K had on his belt.

Great: everyone was qualified to give ECT these days.

Grevlak pointed to the metal device on the floor.

Reluctantly, Spike retrieved it. It wouldn't be the first time he'd been made to wear such an item. He'd sworn to himself that he'd never to submit to one again, but it looked like there was no choice – not if he wanted to avoid further punishment from the collar.

And he really did.

His legs started to give, and he leaned against the wall for support. He turned away from his jailers, covering his face with his right hand while taking himself in his left.

He heard K saying, "We're very coy, aren't we? William the Bloody, so pure and virginal! Who knew?"

Then Grevlak got hold of his arm and pulled him back to face the front of the cell. "Here, let me help you." He grasped Spike's cock in a warty paw.

"I'll do it." Spike hated the desperate, pleading sound in his voice.

"You had your chance," K put in. "Obviously you're too modest. Let Grevlak help you. It has to be done right. We want you standing nice and proud for our buyers. You wouldn't want to disappoint us now, would you?"

K was looking at him, actually expecting an answer.

"No," Spike said thickly. He blinked and swallowed. "Wouldn't wanna do that."

He steeled himself for another shock – punishment for his sarcasm.

It didn't come.

He breathed a sigh of relief – couldn't help himself.

Then Grevlak began forcing an erection from him.

"Thought I wasn't your type," Spike muttered.

"Just doing my job," Grevlak said. "And the fact that you don't want me to – well that just makes my day brighter."

Spike didn't dare protest further. He looked away, quivering with rage and humiliation, biting his lip with blunt teeth.

But, fuck it! What did he have to be embarrassed about?

Nothing – well, apart from getting himself into this mess in the first place.

If anyone should be ashamed it was these pathetic wankers, not him.

Their smug evil-bastard dialogue wasn't exactly masterpiece theatre.

He tilted his chin and looked out of the cage at the office wallah, meeting his gaze full on. In defiance of the situation – the shame of being handled with this brutal intimacy in front of a hostile audience – Spike allowed his eyes to fall half-closed, and assumed a look of blissful sensuality.

K's eyes widened; his mouth dropped open. He gulped and backed away. "I'll leave this matter in your capable … um … claws," he muttered to Grevlak, and quickly retreated up the stairs.

A little heartened by his minor victory, Spike smiled bitterly.

One down.

It was better odds, but any chance of overpowering this creep would depend on stopping him getting a hand to the control mechanism, added to which Spike was already weak and exhausted from the ordeal, and his tackle was in Grevlak's scaly mitts.

He turned a look of contempt on Grevlak.

"Finished mauling me yet, mate?" he enquired, in a voice that – despite a quavering note – promised painful death if the positions were ever to be reversed.

"Hmm. Nearly done," Grevlak replied, un-phased, but with one hand hovering near the pain-giving symbol at his waist, now his supervisor was gone. He shook his head sadly. "But it would have been better for you, if you hadn't been so cheeky to me."

Grevlak treated Spike to an extremely rough last jacking – enough to make him gasp and wince and bite his tongue – then began applying the implement of sexual torture to Spike's genitals, with as much care and attention to detail as if he were icing a wedding cake.

For all his bravado, Spike's guts turned to lead as he felt the mystical device seal wherever the material crossed, tightening around him; ensuring who-knew how many hours of discomfort and frustration. He was trussed up like a – well, like a very trussed-up thing; it was hard to come up with a decent simile with your testicles in a vice.

Grevlak stood back and admired his efforts. "There. Isn't that nice?"

Spike looked down. Seeing everything he had on display, so grotesquely bound and constricted, held a horrible fascination. It was almost impossible to look anywhere else, and Grevlak clearly thought so too.

Now, he grasped Spike's imprisoned and swollen cock between the thumb and forefinger of his clawed hand, and tugged, and Spike had no choice but to be led by his dick. He was paraded past row after row of cells containing other prisoners of all species, many of them similarly adorned.

Spike tried to keep a look of supreme boredom on his face, but he suspected he looked exactly how he felt: beaten, humiliated, and mightily pissed-off.

They seemed to be travelling the same route over and over, presumably for the entertainment of the guard, and as warning to the others. Some few demons met his gaze; a few sneered or chuckled; most just turned away, or looked sympathetic or afraid.

Those last were the worst for his morale. This fuzzy demon solidarity was weird; it made him feel weak. That he was grateful for it – that was stranger still. Not so long ago, some of the demons blessing him with looks of concern, he would have killed just to keep his hand in.

Grevlak came to an abrupt halt outside an end cell, and Spike collided with him.

"Tch! Tch! Clumsy!"

Without loosening his grip on Spike's cock, Grevlak put a hand on his chest and shoved him away.

It felt like everything was about to be ripped off. Spike choked back a cry as he stumbled, trying to keep his footing.

Bloody hell; that hurt.

He clenched his jaw and looked blankly into Grevlak's face.

Grevlak smiled. "Well, William, that was fun. We won't meet again. But here's a little something to remember me by." He ran a callused thumb lightly across the head of Spike's cock, and Spike sucked in a breath.

Then he did it again, but more roughly, and to Spike's shame, a groan of helpless arousal rose from deep in his throat.

Grevlak's tongue flicked across his lips. "Oh, you're hot for me, William."

He gave a yank, and Spike stumbled into the cell, whimpering and cupping himself protectively.

Retreating to the farthest end of the cell, Spike turned at bay, projecting a look of hatred so pure that it made Grevlak step back momentarily. Then he just laughed and pressed the symbol on his wrist.

This time the punishment was delivered through both the mystical objects.

Spike crashed to the floor, clutching his testicles and loosing incoherent animal sounds of pain.

~~

After a while, Grevlak had had enough. He tapped the sigil and went off down the corridor, chuckling to himself.

Spike stayed curled around himself the back of the cell, for what seemed like a very long time.

When the hideous cramping in his muscles finally eased, he found himself trembling from the shock. His vision blurred as tears of rage and frustration welled up; he squeezed his eyes tight shut to stop them falling. It felt like every bone had been removed from his body, and his cock and his balls were on fire. His throat was sore.

Still on his knees, shivering with the cold, he leaned against the wall, and let himself break open; gave way to it, racked with raw sobs.

It helped. Not much, but a little – and after a moment of self-indulgence, he was almost ready to try and pull it together again.

Thank God the next cell was empty, and there was no one to see him. Must look ridiculous, crouching here, blubbering; and Room Service in this place would probably take weeks to bring him a nice box of tissues. He dragged the back of his hand across his face, smearing tears and snot everywhere.

Think: he had to think.

He tried, he really did, but concentration was impossible with all this hardware cramping his style. Struggling with the metal bindings was almost certainly going to prove futile, but like a man in a locked room, it still seemed like some kind of imperative to try to escape. Touching made it worse – made him want to cry again – but he submitted himself to a careful examination.

There didn't seem to be any way of getting the contraption off without magic, specialised cutting gear or amputation. He was going to have to get used to this febrile state of permanent physical arousal. He was sore; the skin was raw and chafed from the rough treatment he'd received while still soaking wet, but the shocks hadn't left any burn marks – which meant they must be purely mystical rather than electric. The downside of that was, that they could give him as many as they wanted without reducing his market value.

At least they hadn't plugged him as well.

He snorted.

Always look on the bright side, eh?

So: what was going to happen next?

He couldn't escape; the cage, the chip, and these magic doodads put paid to any hope of that. He was clearly being marketed as a sex slave, and if he'd heard K correctly, through all the screaming agony, the auction was in about 36 hours.

If a demon bought him, and they were daft enough to nod off within reach of his hands or his teeth, he might get a chance to kill them as they slept: unlikely, but not impossible; demons could get cocky, same as anyone.

His current situation was proof of that.

If his new owner was a human, he couldn't harm them, but he might charm them into releasing him – cut some kind of deal.

A vain hope flitted across his mind that there might be a demon equivalent of those charities that bought animals that were going to be slaughtered, and kept them in a sanctuary instead.

Come on now, Spike; that's truly desperate.

And how had he got here?

The memory-loss wasn't the biggest problem right now, but it wasn't helping with forward planning. They must have given him some kind of disorienting drug – vampire LSD or something. His most recent memory was the worst affected. The only reason he knew what continent he was on was by the accents.

"Fuck!" He thumped a fist against the stone wall.

"Hey, it's okay."

Spike nearly jumped out of his skin. He stared into the shadows opposite; a skeletal female figure began to resolve itself from the darkness.

Acutely embarrassed at finding that his earlier humiliating breakdown had been observed by a complete stranger, his reply was ill-tempered.

"'Okay', is it? In case you hadn't noticed, pet, I'm in a damp and poorly appointed _cell_, naked, trussed up like some spooky sex toy, and waiting to be sold to the highest bidder. In what region of the galaxy is that – 'okay'?"

When she didn't reply, he pressed his hands to his eyes.

"Sorry. I don't mean to be rude. I'm just a bit …"

He glanced down and instinctively tried to cover his nakedness, but then shook his head and gave up. The chit had seen everything already, and in any case, she was just as short of clothing as he was.

She dipped her head, and persisted in her efforts at raising his spirits.

"They're saying you'll get a good price – being famous and all. Maybe fifty big ones. People don't spend that kind of money to treat you rough."

Girl might have a point.

Or not.

"Never heard of canned hunts, love? Impotent big shots'll pay a fortune to shoot a drugged lion. Maybe that's what's in store for me – an expensive game of put the stake in the vampire, ever think of that?"

She twisted a strand of hair around a finger. "True, but if they stake you, they won't have a trophy to put on the wall, not like with a lion." She wrinkled her nose. "I suppose they could keep your ashes in an urn but –"

"Yeah, thanks for the pep-talk, love. Think I was better off without it."

He looked sideways at her, listening.

No heartbeat.

She was a vampire too.

He'd thought he was badly off, but she was strapped up with all kinds of fetishistic adornments and decorated – if you could call it that – with multiple piercings, recently performed, judging by how bloody they looked. She was very thin. Probably hadn't fed in weeks.

Cheap but pretty.

Girl was giving him comfort, though she was almost certainly in an even worse position than he was. She must know how little chance she had of living through the night, after she'd been bought. Her price would come out of a company slush fund; some fat slob of a businessman would do whatever he liked with her, and the cleaners would dispose of her tidily at the end of the night.

Realising she was aware of his scrutiny, he looked away.

"Sorry," he said again. And he knew that she knew what he was sorry about.

"It's okay." She shrugged. "I didn't take to this life. I got turned a few weeks ago, but I can't eat … drink … whatever … The taste of blood makes me sick, what with being vegetarian and all." She was quiet for a moment, then she volunteered gamely, "I did try. I killed my next-door neighbour."

Spike cocked an eyebrow.

"He kept his dog chained up outside all the time. He was really mean to it. So I ate him." She heaved a defeated sigh. "But I puked him all up again."

"Well, maybe you should try mixing your drinks," Spike suggested. "Might want to add a bit of honey to your blood, or put some Jack Daniels in it. Or you could try pinching plasma from a hospital – that might go down easier."

Now it was the girl's turn to look like she was talking to a moron. "Yeah, I'll do that. Just as soon as I get back from summer camp."

They slumped into uneasy silence.

Spike broke it. "Got a name, love?"

"Genevieve. You?"

"'Genevieve' – that's pretty. Mine's Spike."

After that, neither of them could think of anything more to say.

~~

As time went by without any more drugs being pumped into him, Spike's memory began to sort itself out.

He was confident that what was happening now was real enough, and that he was, in fact, a centenarian vampire with at least two things in his head he could well do without: a considerable amount of emotional baggage related to his vampire family, and an unforgiving behaviour modification chip.

The only thing he was still unsure of, was anything that had happened after the chip was put in his head – especially his little farm holiday. It was hard to think of himself living on a farm in the Midwest; but before Genevieve had fallen into an uneasy sleep, she'd told him that they were in Cleveland. That had lent credence to the story he'd been experimentally recounting to himself … about how he'd fallen for a soldier – a golden Apollo – who had loved him back; got him out of the lab where he was being held prisoner; taken him into his home.

Somewhere he'd been accepted – maybe even wanted.

It seemed surreal: a fantasy from one of those cheap paperbacks that women eat up like chocolate.

He ached to believe it, but at the same time it filled him with blank despair.

Realistically, he only gave himself a 50-50 chance of surviving the next day or two, and after that, he might still be killed, or kept imprisoned for years.

If the promise of Iowa – yes! that was the place! – if that had been more than just a delusion – and the more he thought about it, the more it gained solidity; coalesced from an enchanting dream into an arcadian reality – then he'd thrown it away.

And for what?

Oh yeah, that was it; now he remembered. Independence.

He laughed, as he looked down at himself. Some independence!

Couldn't even get his rocks off, if he wanted.

Though it increased his physical distress, he began to stroke and pet himself: his bruised, tormented balls; his poor swollen dick. He curled around himself, rocking, and moaning softly as he comforted and punished himself, and thought about the man he'd won and lost.

At least this was misery he was in control of.

He'd remembered his man's name.

Riley: Riley Finn.

Spike wondered whether he'd been missed yet; whether Riley Finn would come looking for him. He would try: that much was certain. But Spike doubted whether even Finn – whom he remembered was more resourceful and cunning than he appeared – would be able to find him here.

And what if he did?

Spike's stomach curdled with horror at the thought of his saviour getting trapped here, in a doomed attempt to get him out. With a sinking feeling, he remembered the ring he'd given Riley – an empathy ring. Its range under test conditions had been limited, but there was no telling how his current dire situation – and the fact that he was in the domain of a sorcerer – would affect it. His emotional turmoil might draw Riley here like a moth to a flame.

As soon as that thought came to him, he threw cold water on his emotions. Whatever happened, he wasn't going to be responsible for luring Riley here to his death, or worse.

He'd have to shift for himself.

If he was going to win through – find his way back to that place of warmth – well, he'd have to earn it.

And he was going to do his damnedest to do exactly that.

~~

It was as he made this decision that a small, androgynous humanoid – like Grace Jones if she'd been put in a boil wash – appeared outside the cell. It looked intently at him, and he felt a prickly feeling all over his skull.

It was trying to read his mind.

He tried to blank out all thought, but that was like trying not to think of a blue horse.

Right then: try thinking of a blue horse.

But he could feel the little sparks and challenges getting around that block, so he gave the seer a way in, but flooded his synapses with the hopeless rage he'd been keeping in check, and let his demon out.

The seer tilted its head to one side, and got out a mobile phone.

"The one numbered 205 seems to have been acting alone. To know for sure, I'd need a seer-twin here to triangulate, but he seems to have little hope of rescue. If anyone comes for him, it will be from within a relatively small radius, and it will be from the west."

~~

At the other end, Lilah Morgan looked thoughtful.

A small radius …

Angel was in LA, so clearly Spike had no thought of help coming to him from that direction.

Well, why would he?

But there was someone who might come to his aid – possibly that Drusilla character.

Interesting.

"Set up our standard psychic deterrents on the terrestrial routes west, just in case. If anyone comes for him, I want it to be Angel. I don't want any complications."

~~


	2. Through the Looking Glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Riley and Angel work together.  
> Bad things happen to Spike.

Reflections 2: Through the Looking Glass

Spike hadn't called in this morning.

He hadn't called in last night either, and under these circumstances, with Spike heading out into unknown territory, Riley didn't like it.

Trouble was, this was exactly the kind of situation in which he shouldn't risk calling. If Spike were raiding a property, the last thing he'd need would be his cell-phone playing 'Ghost-riders in the Sky', and giving him away.

In any case, Spike had specifically asked him not to call during the hours of dark, unless it was urgent, in case he was at a delicate point in a fight or in negotiations; a tinkling phone could distract him – weaken his position.

They were way out of the range at which the ring could give Riley any clue as to Spike's situation, but just as an experiment – and because he needed something to do with his hands – he took it off.

It wasn't a surprise that he couldn't detect any blips on his personal Spike-dar. But when he put the ring back on, a feeling of blank despair settled over him, and he couldn't tell whether it was coming from Spike, or was the result of his own anxiety.

He'd been so worried last night that he'd snapped at his parents, and retreated to the cabin earlier than usual to lie down. Sleep had predictably eluded him. In the dead hours, he'd jerked off miserably, in the hope that it would relax him, but it had only made him hyper-aware that he was alone.

He'd turned on the radio, just for the company.

Damn those country music stations.

Before first light, he'd gone out and sat in the stables among the slumbering beasts, and as soon as the first hint of dawn showed itself, he made the phone call he'd been itching to make. It was earlier than their agreement allowed, but he couldn't help it. He'd have to beg Spike's forgiveness.

"Spike is not available at this time. If you would like to leave a message, please press 1."

He dropped the phone in his eagerness to comply. Not bothering to try sounding like he was cool, he blurted, "Spike, are you okay? I know it's probably stupid, but I've been worried sick. Call me as soon as you can, will you? As soon as it's safe for you. Sorry … I'm just … Just call me."

He made some tea; he'd picked up these alien habits, living with Spike; but when he knocked the cup off the drainer, Riley didn't have the heart to make another.

Every couple of minutes he looked at the clock; looked at the phone. He went to the main house and called his own mobile number to make sure his phone was still receiving.

There was nothing wrong with it.

Half an hour later, Spike still hadn't called, and still didn't pick up.

An hour later, Riley called Angel Investigations.

~~

Angel had only fallen asleep about an hour ago, and he wasn't in the best condition to answer Riley's frantic questions, but he tried. "No, I didn't speak to him yesterday. Not since just before he left you."

"He went out yesterday evening to chase after that mirror you wanted, and he hasn't called in since."

Riley obviously wasn't very happy with him.

"Well, he's probably just lost the phone, or fallen asleep drunk," Angel grumbled, still drowsy.

"Spike doesn't get drunk."

Now Riley sounded quite indignant.

"He doesn't? Since when?" Angel replied.

There came a determined knocking on his door, so he rolled out of bed and pulled on a robe as he went to open it.

"Cordelia."

His – whatever she was – stood there looking as immaculate as usual, making him feel even more bedraggled just from standing near her.

"He doesn't get drunk when he's away," Riley's insistent, worried voice came from the phone. "Not when he's working."

Angel listened with growing incredulity, at the same time, trying to ignore Cordelia's insistent tapping on his arm, gesticulations and theatrical mouthing of his name.

"And if he couldn't find his mobile, he'd have called from the hotel phone if he'd got back safe, he always does."

"Hold on, Riley, I'm trying to have two conversations at once here."

Angel heard Riley huffing impatiently.

"Cordelia's trying to tell me something."

"Finally!" Cordelia exclaimed. "Angel, I thought you'd want to see something I found while I was looking for shoes on the Internet. And I stress that this was _before_ I came to work, not on the firm's time – did you know there's a Blahnik Demon? And where there's one, there's always a pair? That's how I –"

"No. No I didn't know that." Coping with Cordelia's stream-of-consciousness exposition at this time of the morning was almost beyond Angel's capabilities.

"Exactly what is this about, Cordy?"

She swayed smugly, with her hands clasped behind her back. "Well, I thought you'd like to know that our murderous little cockney has got his comeuppance."

"Who?" Angel's forehead wrinkled in consternation. "You mean Spike? He's what? Comeuppance for what?"

She slapped his arm. "For sticking hot pokers in you, dumb-ass!"

"Ow!" He rubbed his arm. "I'm over that."

"Well, for terrorising my class on parent teacher night then, whatever! Come down to the office. I'll show you!" She tugged on the sleeve of his robe.

Hanging on to the phone as Cordelia tried to drag him out of the room, Angel said, "Riley – I may have something. I'll call you back, okay?"

"What is it?"

"I don't know yet – just, let me go look, I'll call in five minutes."

"You do that."

When Angel got down to the office, what he saw was more than disturbing. Cordelia had stumbled across the official on-line catalogue of a 'Mid-Winter Auction', hosted by Wolfram &amp; Hart's Cleveland branch. Its contents included –

_'Fabulous specimens of historical, archaeological and thaumaturgical significance. Rare creatures and exotic slaves, and the once-only opportunity to enjoy your new acquisition or train your pet in one of the deceased sorcerer's many dungeons, using your choice of equipment. As an added bonus, because the house is magically hard-wired into Cleveland's very own hell-mouth, you'll have all the time in the world.'_

Angel winced.

Cordelia drew his attention to the section headed, _'Late addition to catalogue: a Master Vampire who needs no introduction – William the Bloody.'_

Angel's face took on a constipated expression as he scrolled down the page, and saw the photo of Spike: clearly – to anyone who knew him well – in a state of some distress.

"Jesus!" he murmured.

Cordelia looked at him with her head cocked in puzzlement. "I thought you'd be pleased, Angel. After all, it's not like you're best friends. He tried to kill you. Surely it's _good_ news if Wolfram &amp; Hart are using their power to defeat your enemies, instead of … you know, defeating _us_?"

Angel turned a look of incomprehension upon her.

"You've been in that same position, Cordy. They tried to sell your _eyes_, remember? How can you be pleased to see someone else being –"

"Angel, duh! He tried to kill you. How many times do I have to say it?"

Angel heaved a sigh.

One of these days, he was going to have to confess to Cordy, all the horrible things – well, some of the less-horrible things – he'd done to Spike; then she might understand … But today wasn't that day.

"Spike was never going to kill me. He just wanted the ring."

"Sure. Spike just wanted the ring. And Darla just wants to give you a mix-tape she made for you."

Cordelia looked at Angel, and Angel looked at Cordelia.

Angel said, "This isn't about Darla." Then he frowned. "Well, I don't think it is … Don't want Spike involved with all that …"

"Okay! Fine! What. Ever."

Cordelia's clipped delivery signalled her disapproval.

"First you're sworn enemies. Now, you're defending him. I will never. Understand. Vampires."

"I'm not only defending him. I'm going to get him out. Book me a flight to Cleveland. I have to leave, as soon after sunset as possible."

Cordelia's eyebrows put as much distance as they could between themselves and her eyes. "You're going to rescue the evil blood-sucking monster?"

Angel scowled, daring her to obstruct him. "You have a problem with that?"

"Nope."

Cordelia whisked away to do his bidding.

Something else he was going to have to tell Cordelia – sometime – was that he'd only given himself such a substantial raise last quarter so that he could pay Spike out of his salary; that she and Spike were effectively co-workers.

But now wasn't _that_ time either.

He looked again at Spike's face staring out at him, blank with fear. It was disturbing. What was more disturbing was that when he looked at his e-mail, he found a circular about the auction in his inbox.

Wolfram &amp; Hart didn't usually include him on their mailing list.

He'd been meant to find out about it.

This _was_ about him.

It was always about him.

Reluctantly, Angel dialled Riley's number.

"I have some bad news."

He heard Riley's heart-rate skyrocket and quickly added, "He's still alive. Well, you know – he should be safe until tomorrow night. But I may have got him into more trouble than he was ready for. I'm flying in to Cleveland. Can you meet me there?"

~~

The rest of the conversation was tense. Riley tried to take in what Angel was saying about evil law firms – was there another kind? – and how Spike might have gotten caught up in some private vendetta of Angel's, but he was seeing red: deep red. So deep it was almost black.

They arranged to meet at the hotel where Spike usually stayed.

"Can you bring weapons?" Angel said. "Because, coming by plane, I guess I won't even have nail clippers."

"You bet I'll bring weapons."

A stake with Angel's name on it wasn't out of the question.

"He's bait, Riley. That means he's safe. They won't harm him – at least not until after the auction tomorrow night. They'll almost certainly be waiting for me to show up. I don't think you'll be expected, but do not – I repeat, do _not_ – go in alone. You get there first, you meet me at the hotel, we work out our tactics from there, okay?"

"You dragged him into this Angel," Riley snapped. "How is it you that gets to call the shots?"

"Look, I know you're angry –"

"You bet I'm angry –"

"– but I'm two hundred years old, and I've been around magic, and been knocked around by it for most of those. How many sorcerors' homes have you ever visited, Riley?"

"None, that I know of. But I'm going in, whether you show up or not."

"You want to give Spike the best chance – you'll wait for me."

Riley knew Angel was right, but he didn't have to like it. It galled him.

"Where is this place where they're holding him?"

"It's on Wolfram &amp; Hart's website. Give me your e-mail, and I'll send you the link so you can see what we're up against."

What Riley saw nearly sent him through the ceiling. He stared in incomprehension at Lot 205 – barely-controlled panic written in every line of Spike's face.

He looked at the text. "'Train your pet'?" he read in a horrified murmur.

Of course, he knew slavery still existed – in far-flung corners of the globe. But _here?_ It didn't seem possible.

He flashed out at Angel: "You! You got him into this! Let him walk into a trap."

"I know. God, Riley, I didn't mean for this to happen."

Riley snorted. But he couldn't afford to waste energy on histrionics, so he locked them down tight. "Just _be there_."

"Riley, I have to warn you – as bad as these guys look, they're really very much worse. They're powerful. They have all kinds of resources at their disposal, and if Spike has been made to talk – or even if he hasn't – they may direct their power against you too. Just – take care. _I_ don't want to have to do this on my own either. I can't. So drive safely."

"Count on it."

Riley went about the cabin grim-faced, collecting his gear together. He filled three Thermos bottles with blood from the fridge and packed everything into the SUV. Then he went to the house where he found his mom in the kitchen, preparing lunch.

~~

Sarah sensed that something was wrong from the way he entered the room. She knew this mode – switched off; brutal; efficient.

Riley looked at her, focussed and expressionless, and simply said – "It's Spike."

She knew at once that Spike must be in bad trouble.

"What's happened to him?"

She held onto the table to steady herself.

"You know we told you his work involved dealing in antiquities?"

"Yes."

"Well, we should probably have told you before, but it's not so much of the 'Antiques Road Show' kind of 'dealing.' More like the 'Indiana Jones' kind."

She nodded slowly, only surprised by how not-surprised she was.

"Spike's been taken by – hostile interests. I have to go get him out. Tell Dad I'm sorry to leave him short-handed but I'll be gone for … however long it takes. Maybe a few days. Don't know."

For a second, Sarah felt like she might faint, but her son – her sons – needed her to be strong.

"Riley, do you want your Dad along? He's still capable. He'd want to help. Hell, give _me_ a gun and point me at these 'hostile interests' –"

"No, Mom, it'll be too dangerous. And I have back-up."

"What do you need me to do?"

"Can you pack some food for me? And plenty coffee, I have to drive to Cleveland. And I'd better have one now –"

"Shouldn't you leave right away?" she said anxiously.

"I have time. My back-up gets into Cleveland tomorrow morning."

~~

She didn't question him further, but made him coffee, and assembled a box full of sandwiches, cookies, cereal bars, fruit, chocolate, and filled two Thermos bottles with more coffee for the journey.

Meanwhile, Riley sat at the already heavily-scarred wooden kitchen table, intently carving Spike's name into the surface with his knife.

It was a thing they did.

Anyone who had lived at the farm for any length of time – their name would be carved into the kitchen table, by someone who missed them when they were gone. Family; friends; well-loved dogs or horses; lovers: all were recorded, not just once, but whenever you felt the need to make their mark for them.

Spike's name was there already. Riley had cut it into the wood, the first time he'd gone off to Cleveland on business. He remembered the look on Spike's face when he'd first noticed his name there on his return: a look of wonder and humility, as though he'd been handed an Oscar for a walk-on part.

Riley wanted to see that look again.

He banged his mug down on the draining board and Sarah handed him the supplies, saying only, "Bring him home, Riley."

"I intend to."

~~

When he'd gone, she took a penknife out of the kitchen drawer and sat down at the table, waiting for her hands to be steady enough to make a start.

~~

The weather was brutal: high winds, horizontal rain, and it was dark – very dark – even though it was still the middle of the day.

As Riley left the outskirts of Huxley behind him, a wave of desperate homesickness – nostalgia for the farm and for his family – swept over him, even though he could still see the lights of the town in his rear-view mirror. He'd never experienced anything like it, even during his first posting overseas.

The feeling passed when he'd put a few more miles behind him, but it left him more anxious and stressed-out than before.

Then there were the obstructions on the road: fallen branches; rocks; wreckage from a recent car crash that hadn't been adequately cleared. Driving under these dangerous conditions demanded concentration, but Riley was troubled by distracting thoughts coming unbidden into his head: thoughts like, 'Spike brought this on himself', and 'Maybe this is more than you can handle. Why not leave it to Angel?'

He tried to dismiss them out of hand, but just thinking about Angel caused feelings of jealous rage to start boiling up inside him. He got like this sometimes; it was like his mind went into a self-destructive loop, telling him that however close he got to Spike, Angel had got closer; touched Spike more deeply, even if it had only been with pain.

His driving became aggressive, and he nearly over-steered on a bend.

This wasn't the way to help Spike.

Riley stopped the car, got an apple out of his supplies, and ate it purposefully, forcing himself to calm down by chewing every mouthful. Then he took their book out of the glove compartment and flicked through it. He read aloud: "'You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed.'"

Spike was his flower; his fox; he was responsible for Spike. But Angel – he'd tamed Spike too. Maybe he felt the same way. Maybe he was entitled to. Maybe that was a good thing – that Spike should have two people looking out for him, rather than just one.

When Riley had recovered a little composure, he set off again, but now he was mulling over what Angel had said about Wolfram &amp; Hart turning their attention on him. What might that mean? Was he putting his family in the firing line too? It was a worrying thought, and – overwrought as he was – he took a wrong turn without noticing. When he realised his mistake, he had to backtrack several miles to get on the right road again.

Then the CD player clicked on of its own accord, playing the mix CD that Spike had made up for him as part of his 'musical education'. First track on it was 'Radar Love.'

Angel had told him he had plenty of time, and he knew he'd have a wait when he arrived in Cleveland, but the song affected him. He drove faster, just to be nearer to Spike, even if he couldn't do anything for him. And who said he had to wait, anyway? Angel could be playing some game he hadn't revealed; it might be better to go in as soon as he arrived, with the advantage of surprise.

It bore thinking about.

The road had been clear for the last half hour. Though the rain was still blatting on the windscreen, Riley was – at last – starting to relax into the driving. Then a deer ran into the road just yards ahead of him. He started braking and swerved wildly into a skid that nearly swung him off the road and into a ditch. There was a glint of broken glass from the roadside and he got a sinking feeling as he felt the wheels scrunch into it.

At least he'd missed the deer. He looked around for it, but it was nowhere in sight. Must have run off – visibility was minimal anyway. But now he felt the car begin to bump, and he pulled up at the side of the road. His front nearside tire was flat.

Cursing, he got out and chocked the back off-side wheel, then it took nearly five minutes to find the jack, buried under all his gear. It wasn't pleasant changing a tire under these conditions. He felt his heart speed up with anxiety, and fumbled nervously with the wheel nuts, conscious of having to take special care not to lose any of them. He nearly left the jack by the roadside in his hurry, and had to reverse back to pick it up.

At last, he was on the way again, with the car heater on full blast to dry his clothes out. The windows began to steam up. For the next couple hours of driving, Riley was on a more even keel.

He tried not to think about what might be happening to Spike, but it was hard. It was all very well, Angel saying Spike wouldn't be harmed, but there were a lot of things you could do to a vampire without causing them permanent damage, or reducing their value as bait.

He hoped to God that Spike would realise help was on the way by now; that he, Riley Finn, was coming for him.

Surely he'd know that …?

Though it was impossible, Riley could have sworn he felt Spike's fear thrumming in his own veins.

Suddenly there was something white and nebulous on the road ahead. Riley slowed right down. With the rain, he couldn't tell what it was until he was within a few feet. It turned out to be a flock of sheep.

He drove at five miles an hour, trying to edge his way among them, but they were milling around, and there seemed no end to them. Revving the engine, even sounding the horn, only seemed to make them pack in tighter around the vehicle. He tried to psych himself up to drive through them and let them get out of his way as best they could, but it was against all his instincts.

Almost growling with frustration, Riley got out of the vehicle, intending to herd them off the road if he could, but when he stepped out onto the blacktop, they were already heading off into the darkness.

Starting to get thoroughly spooked, he got back into the car and drove on. Those sheep had looked … well, sheep just didn't look like that. And there was the disappearing deer. Neither animal was that common around here. For both to have obstructed the road so noticeably on a single trip was more that unusual.

Angel had said to drive carefully.

He hadn't been kidding.

Then came those other thoughts again: 'Spike would be better off with Angel'; 'This is what Spike deserved – all the trouble he's caused you'; 'Maybe they're leading you into a trap, and Spike is in on it'.

But these treacherous thoughts had no power over him; he had a pretty good idea where they were coming from, and when a wolf suddenly appeared in his path, things were crystal clear.

He didn't stop.

He gritted his teeth and drove straight through it.

There was no impact, only a feeling of intense cold.

So.

The Wolf, the Ram and the Hart had him in their sights.

He wasn't going to let anything slow him down again.

~~

When Riley reached the outskirts of Cleveland he stopped to consult his maps, and the directions he'd gleaned from the Net; after driving for another half hour he found the mansion where the auction was to take place.

There could be no doubt about it.

Spike's Camaro was parked a little way off.

Riley felt a lurching sensation in his chest at the sight of it. The bad dream he'd been living these past few hours was suddenly a gut-clenching reality – a cold claw gripping his heart.

He parked off the road, well away from both the house and Spike's car, and took out his binoculars.

The place was lit up with floodlights and heavily guarded. Riley could just about read the board outside; it said simply – 'Viewing, 1 am.' Next to it began a queue the like of which he'd never seen; a selection box of demons with just a small sprinkling of humans, snaking away from the door.

Even in the Initiative he'd never witnessed such an assembly; and here they were, out in the open, apparently feeling no need to hide.

Well, it _was_ the middle of the night.

Riley had been cherishing a faint hope of doing a quick snatch without needing to wait for Angel, but that now faded away. With a sinking feeling, Riley was forced to admit that this was too much to take on alone.

The knowledge that Spike was so close: inside that very building, but inaccessible to him: that was a killer.

It made him want to break things.

He was getting nothing from the ring – nothing at all – though he should easily have been in range now, especially for the more extreme emotional states.

Spike might already be dead. Angel could have been wrong; maybe it was just Spike's name that was being used as the bait, and Spike was already dust …

Riley held that thought at bay. If Spike were dead, why would the enemy have bothered throwing all those obstacles in his way? And if they could do that, they could probably block the operation of any magical objects. The ring's failure to pick anything up could be down to some magical … aura, or force-field … whatever … around the house.

Riley smeared his face with camo-paint, then silently skirted the perimeter of the place, taking full advantage of the meagre cover offered by the blighted vegetation, photographing the house from all sides, and making some sketches showing where the entrances seemed to be.

Probably you couldn't always tell, with sorcerers' houses.

Riley waited in the shadows for some time after he was done, watching the comings and goings in the hope of spotting some clue as to how Spike was faring. But at last, reluctantly, he went back to his vehicle. There was nothing more he could do.

As he drove away, Riley felt compelled to keep checking the rear-view mirror. He told himself he was making sure he wasn't being tailed, but really? – what he was hoping to see was Spike, running down the track after him, waving to him to stop.

Stupid.

He was going to have be sharper than that if he was going to get Spike out in one piece.

Perhaps it was just as well he'd have Angel along.

~~

It was after midnight when he got to Spike's hotel, and it was a poor kind of place. Its advantage was that it had its own parking, so there was no need to bring all his gear up to the room – it wasn't left unprotected. But the shabby exterior was an accurate advertisement for what lay within.

Riley hadn't realised Spike stayed in such downmarket places when he was on the job. Could have worked it out, by taking a closer look at the credit card bill, but he hadn't wanted Spike to think he was under supervision.

The receptionist – 'Frank', according to his nametag – didn't give him any trouble.

"So you're Riley!"

Frank looked fascinated.

"Nice to meet you. Spike's not here, but come right up."

The man had good reason to give him the key and add his name to the register. At least now, Frank could feel more confident that the bill would get paid.

The bathroom was ancient, noisy and not especially clean. The carpets and the bedclothes were thin. The curtains weren't, and Frank explained that he'd put them up especially at Spike's request. Riley gave him a searching look, and he tapped the side of his nose and said, "We get all kinds here."

It was so grim that if Riley hadn't already arranged to meet Angel here, he would have considered going elsewhere.

But this was Spike's last known resting place.

Riley dropped his bag on the threadbare rug by the bed and flung himself down, where Spike had lain. There was no smell; Spike had no body odour – none that Riley's human senses could detect anyway – and he didn't wear after-shave. But the sheets hadn't been changed; the bed hadn't even been made – and Riley found that strangely comforting.

Fully-dressed, he fell asleep in the indentation Spike had made the day before.

~~

At around eight in the morning, Riley heard a knock on the door. He hadn't managed to sleep for very long, and for the past hour he'd just been lying there with his eyes closed, trying to fool his body into a state approximating restfulness.

Now he was alert.

He got up and flung the door open, prepared to vent his anger on Angel; tell him again, what a bastard he was for getting Spike into this; maybe even slug him. But when he saw how worried – how chastened – Angel appeared, he just offered his hand, and Angel responded at once. They gripped each other in a clumsy four-handed grasp.

"Well, this is …" Angel came in and surveyed the room: "… Spartan."

"Yeah, I know," Riley said ruefully. "It was where Spike stayed. I … if I'd known …"

But Angel didn't dwell on it. "So – what do you have?"

"Standard military stuff." Riley called up his mental checklist. "Couple of M9s, bayonets, CS gas and masks – but I guess you're okay without one of those?"

When Angel nodded assent he went on down the list: "– stun and sting grenades –"

"What does a sting grenade do?"

"It's like a mess of rubber bullets, just exploding from a grenade. Not usually lethal, but it can cause injuries and a lot of confusion."

"Hmm. Sounds useful."

"Flares, explosives, some kind of demon goo prototype – don't know how well that works, I've never tried it. Med-kit, camo-paint, rope, duct tape." Riley blinked and flicked hair off his face. "Some other stuff."

"I'm impressed –"

Angel looked it.

"– but what I meant was – did Spike leave any clues here about the place where he's being held?"

"Oh. Right." Riley shook his head. "I looked when I got here. Couldn't see anything apart from his overnight bag." He kicked the lonely item disconsolately. "I guess he only had the one shot at it. But I scoped the place out last night – I have these."

He showed Angel the rough sketches, and the digital pictures of the building, stored in his camera.

"Neat," Angel said, as Riley scrolled through the images. "Good gadget."

Then the impassive mask was back in place. "The inside of the building's still an unknown quantity," Angel pointed out.

"Could I maybe go along and try and trick my way in?" Riley suggested. "Pretend I was there for … maintenance or something? Do some recon?"

"I doubt they'd buy that. They're selling the building as well as the contents. They're not going to worry if the plumbing's not in good working order. Besides, the guy flying the plane –" Angel frowned. "Pilot – he said the weather's clearing over Ohio. That means I can't be there if you go in daylight. And if you aroused suspicion and got taken prisoner, we'd be trebling our problem. We _have_ to wait for night. It's a trap, and it's meant for me. If I don't show – Spike might be history."

Riley scratched the back of his neck. "You still haven't explained why they'd want to bring you all the way out here. If they just wanted to trap you, why not do it in LA?"

"I don't know Riley. They're evil, and I'm … well, only evil sometimes." Angel looked pained. "Maybe it's because Spike showed up here. I don't really know what their plans are for me. I'm just about keeping half a step ahead of them, and sometimes less than that."

"It seems to me that you're just doing exactly what they want," Riley said. "They tried to stop me getting here. Lots of weird stuff happened on the road. So I'm guessing _I'm_ not part of their plan. If they assume their deterrents worked, maybe I _could_ take them by surprise –"

"Like I told you before, there may be magical … stuff in the house. Things I'll recognise and be able to deal with better than you." Angel looked Riley in the eye. "You've seen a little of what they can do. And I know you don't really trust me – you'd rather go it alone, and I can't blame you. But believe me when I say, I don't want Spike harmed, especially on my account. We need to work together on this."

Reluctantly seeing the truth of it, Riley nodded his agreement. "It's very well-guarded. How are we going to get him out?"

An idea suddenly occurred to him. "Angel – we know they're holding him against his will. Couldn't we just go to the police?"

Angel shook his head. "I don't have any contacts on the local force. How would we convince them? And even if we did, the warrant would probably take too long, or get completely blocked higher up. Wolfram &amp; Hart can pull all kinds of strings. And we'd be seriously endangering any officers who went in. Besides which, Spike doesn't legally exist, and if they did a daylight raid ..."

Riley sagged. Then he had another light-bulb moment; it seemed so obvious.

"Angel, why don't I bid for him? Buy him? Then no one would stop me taking him, right?"

"You'd do that?"

Angel was plainly surprised.

"Sure, why not?"

Angel frowned. "Well, you'd be emptying your piggy bank for Evil Incorporated, that's why not. I didn't think you'd be prepared –"

"Big picture here, Angel. If they're as powerful as you say, my pathetic addition to their coffers will be a drop in the ocean. This is Spike we're talking about. We both know what _he's_ worth. If making a contribution to Hell Incorporated ensures me getting him out alive, I can live with the moral implications."

Riley could almost see his stock shooting up.

"I guess it's worth a try. How much do you have?"

"Twenty grand on my credit card. Another twenty-five in the bank."

Angel shook his head in vexation. "Honestly? These people are high rollers, and they know their stuff. With Spike's reputation, I don't think it'll be enough – though it might get you in the door." He cast a critical eye over Riley's attire. "But you won't get in dressed like that. You'll have to borrow some of my stuff."

"What?" Riley blanched.

"I'm as reluctant as you are to share outfits. But we're about the same build, and it's a way of getting you inside the place, even if they outbid you." Angel began rummaging in his overnight bag for something suitable. "Even once we're inside, finding Spike could be a problem. It's a big house, and – not to sound like I'm selling it to you – it might be more spacious inside than it is outside."

Riley wasn't sure how that worked, but took Angel's word for it. He just said, "I'll find him"

"You sound very sure."

"I'll find him, Angel. I won't stop until I do. And I have this to help me."

He held up his left hand, showing Angel the ring.

"If Spike's within fifty to a hundred yards, I can usually home in on him – his emotions. Last night, from outside the house, it didn't work, but I guess it might be different once we're in."

"He gave you that," Angel said flatly.

"Yes."

Riley looked at him unflinching; Angel seemed to suck it up.

"You realise that could make it pretty traumatic," Angel said cautiously. "For you, I mean – depending on his circumstances. You looked at the catalogue, right?"

Riley found himself subjected to a serious, assessing look.

"I'm prepared for that," Riley replied with equal seriousness. "I hope you know I hold you responsible for these 'circumstances', whatever they happen to be."

Angel looked discomfited. "I told him to be careful. I didn't ask him to go and get himself caught."

_ **"Bastard!"** _

Riley hit Angel on the jaw, rocking him back.

Angel just rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "You're pretty useful. And for the record, I had no idea Wolfram &amp; Hart were involved. I swear, if I had, I'd have warned him off." He sat down and put his head in his hands. "I didn't want him dragged into this."

Still wound tight, Riley smashed a fist into the wall, then stood still for a moment, taking rapid, too-shallow breaths.

Angel got up and went to him, and put a hand on his shoulder. "You know, I don't think you should worry too much. Spike's tough."

His attempt to reassure was sincere, and inept, and he persisted with it.

"You know, there was this one time – we laugh about it now – we were trapped down a mineshaft by these Yorkshire miners. Spike had eaten all their firstborn children while they were at work –"

"You know what, Angel?" Riley snapped a glare in his direction.

"You'd prefer it if I shut up."

"You got it."

Riley took to pacing.

An awkward silence stretched out, until Angel broke it.

"Sorry."

"S'okay."

"It's just –" Angel looked at the floor. "I'm worried about him too."

"I know." Now it was Riley's turn to give comfort, with a hand on Angel's arm. "You're here – that's enough. So let's just have a coffee, get on with the planning, and then get some rest, okay?"

Riley got out his thermos, then paused, considering. It wouldn't help if Angel was low on energy when they did this.

"Would you prefer blood?"

"You brought blood for Spike," Angel said, his face softening. "Thought of everything, didn't you?"

"I hope so."

Angel was finally starting to look like he thought they might stand a chance of success.

"I ate earlier," he said. "Coffee's fine, thanks."

~~

When they'd finished talking strategy and tactics, Riley lay down on the bed, and Angel took the sagging wooden-armed chair in the corner. Riley lay on his back, looking at the ceiling. Angel sat in silence, with his eyes open, apparently gazing at nothing.

Riley rolled onto his side, with his back to Angel, but he could still feel Angel's thousand-yard stare piercing him. He turned over to face him. Angel still didn't close his eyes – just kept looking at him, or through him.

Riley couldn't get any rest with those troubled, distant eyes on him. It felt unreasonable, but eventually he said, "You're stopping me sleeping Angel, and I really need to get a couple more hours' downtime."

"I'm being quiet."

Angel sounded almost hurt.

"Yeah, but you're looking at me. It's … unnerving."

"I'm not looking at you," Angel protested.

"It feels like you are."

"Well, the hotel doesn't have a bar –"

Was Angel whining?

"– and I can't go out for a daytime stroll, not if you want my help tonight."

Riley sighed. "Don't you need to sleep?"

"I _am_ tired. I haven't been sleeping well," Angel admitted. "But I don't have a bed."

"Why can't you get a room? On your own?"

"Because then I'd have to explain the extra cost to Cordelia," Angel muttered, looking embarrassed. "She made a big enough deal about me coming here at all. Anyway, I think we should stay together – just in case."

There was no way he was sharing a single bed with Angel.

Blessedly, Riley remembered his gear. He went down to the car, returned with a sleeping bag, threw it to Angel and said, "You can take the floor."

Catching and unrolling his temporary bed, Angel replied, "I knew that."

~~

Riley shifted uneasily in Angel's designer clothes and expensive shoes as he waited in the twilight, outside the heavy oak door. A hatch opened in response to his knock, and something with a gnarled face inspected him.

Riley tried to look rich and … well, evil.

His back-story – should anyone engage him in conversation – was that he was the prodigal son of an oil magnate. He'd turned to the Dark Side to try to take over his father's company by even more nefarious means than the Old Man had used to build it, but had been sucked in – as it were – by the lure of the better class of demon hooker, and had given up his original plan, in favour of a hassle-free life of debauchery.

"I'm here for the auction," he said languidly. "Hear you've got some … pretty things on offer."

He tried to slouch – let his shoulders sag and his eyelids droop – in what he imagined was the picture of dissolution, and he must have done okay, because the door was opened to him without question.

As soon as he stepped inside, he felt Spike's presence snap into focus, as though an elastic band it had been released. Angel had been right; it was gonna be pretty hard to keep it together, knowing how bad Spike was feeling: clinging on, almost without hope; humiliated, alone, and very much afraid.

"Are you okay, Guy?"

Riley shook his head. "What?"

The doorkeeper was peering up into his face, with what looked very much like concern, and the weirdness of having a demon enquire after his health was enough to bring Riley back to the task in hand.

"Yeah, sure. Uh. Thanks."

He took a catalogue from the stack by the door.

A bell was rung, evidently signalling that the proceedings were about to commence, because the crowd began making its way through the lobby, towards the ornate double doors at the end.

Riley tried to look like he was in no hurry, but Spike's fear and anxiety hummed on the borders of his consciousness, spurring him on, as he jostled his way among the flow of … beings, and into the auction room.

It was a large hall – maybe originally a ballroom – set out with rows of seating, a central aisle, and a temporary stage at the front. The auctioneer, his face whitened and made up like a Master of Ceremonies, was standing under a spotlight at a table.

He banged his gavel. "Ladies and Gentlemen, please take your seats. We are about to begin."

~~

Riley scanned his catalogue.

The house itself was the first item on the list, followed by a multitude of artefacts, some of which had various magical claims made for them, as well as vast collection of mystical texts. The sale of the first batch of 'Livestock' was scheduled for just before the intermission, and Spike was the last item on the list before the break.

Bidding was swift; Riley boggled as the house and grounds went for a cool ten million.

Then the MC got started on the seemingly interminable list of books, scrolls, urns, orbs, jewellery and other inanimate objects.

When Riley had got a feel for the timing, he slipped to the lobby to call Angel, with an estimate of how long it would be before the bidding for Spike would begin. While he was there, he took a casual look around and got the layout of the public area. A temporary bar was being set up, ready for the intermission, but he couldn't see any indications of where the 'livestock' might be quartered.

He took his place again, and his trepidation grew; there were some pretty high prices being paid for stuff that looked like garbage.

Finally, the MC announced, "And now! The moment many of you have been waiting for!"

There was a ripple of excited applause. A spotlight was swung to the left side of the stage and focussed on a strapping and mottled-skinned demon, who regarded the audience with a baleful and contemptuous glare as he was pushed forward to centre stage by a smaller, horned creature, holding a cattle prod.

Riley watched the proceedings with concern.

This demon – 'Kerr Trepkos' – was being sold as a fighter for undercover gambling operations. Apparently he had a brother who was famous for his gladiatorial skills, and Kerr himself had already shown similar promise. He hadn't been pictured in the catalogue, but even so, the bidding still started at five grand. That seemed a high opening price.

Riley checked himself mentally for the thought. He shouldn't forget that this was someone's life he was hoping would be sold cheap.

But for Spike, as one of the star attractions, it didn't look promising.

The hammer came down for the last time at twenty-five thousand dollars, and Riley was turning away in disappointment when he heard a shout from the 'handler.' Trepkos now had his cuffed hands either side of the demon's head, and was using the chain between the cuffs to throttle his keeper.

The auctioneer looked across unperturbed. He made a small movement – pressed his right hand over his left wrist – and Trepkos dropped instantly to the platform, dragging his panicking captive with him. When the horned demon had managed to struggle free, he kicked his erstwhile attacker in the back, but this was clearly a minor inconvenience, because Trepkos was writhing and clawing at a collar around his neck as though it were choking him.

In a bored voice, the auctioneer said, "Take him to the holding area." He waved dismissively at Trepkos, who was dragged off the stage on the side opposite the one where he'd come in.

"Kerr Trepkos here has just – rather foolishly, if I may say so – provided us with a demonstration of the effectiveness of the control collars, with which all potentially dangerous livestock has been fitted, for your convenience."

There was a polite round of applause. Riley made himself join in with it. If Spike was fitted with a collar like that – as seemed likely – it wasn't going to make the rescue any easier.

The next on stage was a thoroughly dejected female vampire, barely more than a teenager, half in game-face, and painfully thin. She was quickly sold for less than a grand, to a conspicuous and hooting group of louts in business suits. They were well on the way to being drunk, and some of them were wearing paper hats and festooned with sticky string. The girl trailed off to the holding area at the other side of the stage, to wait while payment was made.

The sight of her made Riley wince, but he knew that what he was feeling now would be as nothing to what was coming.

Spike was up next.

Adrenalin flashed through his system in anticipation, and the tight knot of tension fizzed in his chest, sparking all his nerve-endings to high alert.

There was a play of spotlights on the stage, and a fanfare over the PA system.

"And now, the item I know all of you are looking forward to …"

~~

"Angel's not here you say?"

Lilah was perplexed and slightly irritated.

"I was sure he'd show. Obviously vampire family values aren't what they were."

She shook her head in disappointment.

"Never mind. At least we'll still make a few bucks on him." She grimaced in annoyance.

"If only I'd got that bonus …"

~~

A heavy hand pushed him, blinking, into the spotlight, and Spike stumbled and nearly fell on his face. Shackled and cuffed as he was, it was hard to keep his balance.

He glanced nervously out towards the blackness. He could see the pale shapes of faces, hands, catalogues, but it was impossible to make out any individuals beyond the front row. No one _there_ looked either gullible or sympathetic, so he avoided making eye contact at all.

The plan – pathetic, but a plan nonetheless – was to go for the 'seductive but vulnerable' look. No point appearing sullen and obstinate; that would just attract the wrong sort of buyer: the type that was looking for someone to break. So he softened his features, and lowered his head, trying to appear humble; biddable.

It wasn't that difficult – it was how he was feeling.

"Looks pretty tame doesn't he?" the auctioneer said. He knew who would pay the best prices, and it wasn't lonely widows looking for a pet.

"William the Bloody is clearly feeling a little subdued – and who could blame him?" He laughed pleasantly. "But we can't have him hiding that savage fire under a bushel, can we? He has a reputation for chaos and mayhem with few equals. Don't be fooled by that innocent look, people. This vampire has bested not one, but _two_ Slayers."

There was a gasp from the audience.

"Show his paces, Mongo!" the auctioneer said.

The handler – a large but nervous-looking troll-like creature – seemed both puzzled and alarmed at the instruction, and backed away from Spike.

"Come on! Wake him up for us with your little tool!" – the MC quipped, to general amusement.

You could almost see the wheels turning in the creature's head. After a few seconds, it pulled a cattle prod from its belt and stared at its hand as though it belonged to someone else. Then it prodded Spike tentatively, closing its eyes as it activated the implement.

Spike tried to relax and just take it – not to react – but unenthusiastic as the goading was, the sudden shock was still enough to bring his game-face to the surface.

He growled with frustration.

He'd only had the one plan.

"There! That's the real Spike!" the auctioneer crowed in delight. "A formidable Aurelian warrior, he ran with the notorious Angelus back in the day. But he also has a reputation for faithfulness unusual in one of his kind, and would no doubt prove a rewarding purchase for anyone with the cahunas to tame him. Is that you, Ladies and Gentlemen?"

A frisson ran through the watching crowd.

"Or you could just, you know, dust him! Think of that! Dusting William the Bloody!"

That drew a cascade of excited laughter.

"Like all our top-of-the-range vampires, he comes with his very own mahogany stake, cut from the heart of the virgin rainforest, and beautifully inscribed with his name and the main points of his history. So if you choose to dispatch him, either before you leave our pleasure dungeons or after further 'training' at home, you'll always have a quality souvenir of your purchase. And if you should decide to make him a permanent member of your household, you can use this lovely commemorative item to sure he doesn't get too comfortable. Take him down a peg, just by taking it out of your pocket! Just the look on his face will be priceless!"

The auctioneer's phoney smile disappeared.

"Bidding starts at ten thousand dollars, do I have –? Thank you."

~~

What had they done to him?

Riley couldn't take it in; couldn't believe what he was hearing … what he was seeing. He was near the back of the hall – too far away to see much in detail – but it was evident that everything was painfully on display.

There was a lump in Riley's throat. He wanted to close his eyes but he couldn't afford that luxury. He wanted to call out a bid, just to let Spike know he was here, but everyone had been given a luminous, numbered paddle so they could bid without being seen, so he kept his mouth shut, rather than compromise their chances by drawing attention to himself. In any case, the bidding quickly rocketed well out of his price range.

Wave after wave of emotion from Spike swept over him; it nearly made him sick. He thought about taking the ring off so he could function more easily, but now he had the connection back, he was reluctant to give it up, however bad it got.

When he came out on stage, Spike had seemed to have a thread of hope left – a lifeline – but that had snapped as soon as he'd vamped out. Since then he'd run through impotent rage and humiliation and sunk to abject despair, and Riley couldn't blame him.

The house lights had been dimmed still further for this star item, and Riley couldn't make out anything but silhouettes – couldn't see who was bidding for Spike.

Didn't matter who it was.

They weren't keeping him.

As the bidding came to a close and the hammer fell for the last time – at eighty-five thousand dollars – Riley slid out of the hall among the crowd heading for the bar.

He tried to meander inconspicuously in the direction he thought the prisoners had been led after they'd been sold, but there was just a blank wall in front of him – no connecting door – and it wasn't long before he felt Spike's signal fading again. Spike was being taken downwards, and when he got below floor level, the signal died. The 'pleasure dungeons' must be magically shielded.

Close to panic, Riley got out his mobile and called Angel.

"The bid is lost. They're having an intermission now. About half the … people are in the lobby and the others are still in the auction room. It's pretty crowded in here, so I'm going with plan B."

"Your call," Angel said. "I'll get in position. Then we'll see what comes out of the woodwork."

Riley edged towards a wicker rubbish basket full of discarded catalogues. When a huge demon obligingly came and stood in front of him, Riley whipped a couple of petrol-soaked rags from a plastic bag in his pocket, flicked a lighter, and dropped them into the bin. A healthy blaze soon flared.

Riley yelled out, _**"Fire! Get out! Now! Move!"**_

Then the smoke alarms began to sound, and all hell broke loose.

~~

The throwback charged with Spike's custody escorted him to an elevator: an old-fashioned affair of wrought metal. The creature, apparently more afraid of his cuffed, shackled and collared celebrity prisoner than Spike was of him, was keeping one hand hovering over the sigil on his belt.

"So. Your name's not really Mongo, I'll bet," Spike said with forced casualness.

His guard eyed him suspiciously and shook his head. "Name Karg."

He pushed a button to summon the transport, and looked straight ahead of him, clearly scared to even talk to Spike, in case he was tricked into letting him go.

"This isn't your normal line of work, is it?" Spike suggested as they got into the cage and began the clunky descent.

Karg scowled at him. "How you guess?"

Even through the Neanderthal accent, Spike could detect a hint of sarcasm.

"I like carry heavy things," Karg added mournfully. "Move things about."

Spike cocked an eyebrow. "Man who knows his strengths," he said. "Wish I did."

Karg grunted.

"You know who bought me?" Spike asked, not sure whether he wanted to hear the answer. "What … er … manner of person?"

"Karg not see."

He looked sorry, so far as Spike could tell, from those blocky features.

"What about the girl? The one up before me?"

Karg looked at him sympathetically and patted his shoulder. "She in big trouble. Karg think she not leave this place."

Spike shrugged his hand off, and the lift shuddered to a halt.

The so-called 'Pleasure Dungeons' were clearly a cut above the ones he'd been kept in before. The corridor they stepped into was well-lit, dry and carpeted. Nice to know he was going to be tortured in comfort.

Thanks to the leg-irons, Spike could make no better than shuffling progress over the thick pile. The souvenir stake, chained to a strap around his waist, jolted annoyingly between his legs as he moved: a constant reminder of … well, whatever.

Before he'd gone ten yards, he heard the clunk of the lift arriving again, and turned his head to see Genevieve, being pressed against the front of the cage by a hooting pack of half-drunk human males, variously abusing her, and reaching around from behind to grab at her though the ironwork. The pack half-fell, half-scrambled out, tumbled raucously down the corridor and just about managed to stumble into the room the attendant was herding them towards, without knocking themselves out on the doorframe.

As she was bundled inside, Genevieve's eyes locked with Spike's, and before he could tear his gaze away, she reached a hand towards him.

A look passed between them, of sympathy, and shared dread.

If they could just touch fingertips, maybe they would somehow be saved.

Sickened – powerless to save her or himself from the monsters – he turned away, and Karg pushed him gently but firmly through the door, to his own personal hell.

~~

Now he was alone.

Alone, and laid out on a holding device, about two and a half feet off the floor; spread wide and cuffed by wrists and ankles; blindfolded, but not gagged.

So: he was allowed to speak; scream; beg – no doubt he'd be doing all those things before the end – but not see who was there, or what was coming.

He tested the bonds that held him, but they were tight: very tight. He had no leverage against them. It seemed like at least half an hour since Karg had – somewhat apologetically – strapped him down to this infernal thing.

He could hear muffled screams and raucous laughter coming from the next room; but though he felt for Genevieve, knowing the kind of treatment she was getting at the hands of those drunken yobs, Spike was rather more concerned about his own situation right now.

Like her, he was property – a chattel – and whoever owned him could do whatever they wanted.

Who the bloody hell would pay eighty-five grand for him?

Please God it wasn't Gates or Branson; or worse still, Rupert bloody Murdoch; being goosed by one of those wankers would be the final insult.

Spike's whole body was rigid in anticipation of what might be coming his way. His muscles were starting to ache and cramp; there was an unbearable itch on his nose; and as for the other … it felt intolerably sensitive, and try as he might, he couldn't ignore the ache in his balls and the desperate need for relief.

It felt like he had a fifth limb, or a sodding great flagpole with a sign on it saying 'abuse at will.'

The door creaked open, and Spike's guts turned over.

Every nerve-ending on alert, he tried to pin down what kind of people or creatures they were. One male, one female. Only one was a human; the other smelled like a polecat, and was clearly trying to disguise that fact by copious use of expensive cologne and hair products. Other scents he picked out were the aroma of good brandy and the residues of discharged weapons.

There was a gasp of delighted anticipation from the female; a snort of derision from the male. Then there was the soft click and whirr of a camera.

~~

By the time the fire had been put out, the entrance hall was a heaving mass of bodies, and Riley was among them. The auctioneer was trying to call them back, but with limited success. Some tried to obey while others – the slower-witted species – were still panicking and trying to escape a fiery death.

When Riley managed to reach the front door, he dropped to his knees and – softly but clearly – said, "Liam. Now!"

A second later, Spike's overnight bag was slid across the threshold towards him, unnoticed amongst the legs of the confused crowd, and it didn't just contain clothes.

"Got it," Riley affirmed in the same tone. Then he hefted it and forced his way back towards the auction room.

As expected, the smoke alarms were slowly switching themselves off, and the tide was finally turning; more of the patrons were answering the auctioneer's request over the PA system that they take their seats again. Riley pushed and squirmed his way ahead of them, reached into his bag of tricks, donned a mask and sent two tear gas grenades rolling towards the crowd.

That stopped all but the hardiest in their tracks. Most began milling around, shouting or making various other sounds of distress, tripping among the upturned chairs or knocking more of them over in their efforts to get away.

~~

At the same time, Angel came in the front door, setting off a flash-bang and a sting grenade in quick succession.

Angel was prepared for what followed, but all around him, humans and demons – disoriented by the noise and the flash, then hit by the projectiles – variously fell injured, then tried to escape, or to find someone to kill for causing them so much inconvenience.

"Neat!" Angel said, making a mental note to get hip to modern weaponry.

The vampire detector's howls were lost in the general chaos.

~~

Lilah was watching from her commandeered office on the top floor. What she was seeing on the monitors was fascinating. The familiar fighting style caught her attention immediately.

"Angel," she murmured speculatively. "So he does mean something to you."

Grenades were a new thing for Angel – Santa must have brought him some new toys. It was like a war-zone down there: fights breaking out – scores being settled as old enemies opportunistically blamed each other for the chaos all around.

She was thankful that this wasn't happening on home turf, but it looked as though her desired result – re-uniting Angel with his old partner in slaughter – would be achieved. Angel definitely seemed to be throwing himself into the action, heart and … well, soul. She hadn't seen him this animated in – well, ever.

Angel wanted Spike this badly: she'd gift-wrap him herself, and if William the Bloody couldn't turn him back to the Dark Side, Angel was a lost cause. Spike could certainly give _her_ a moment of perfect happiness any day he liked.

Angel was hacking and slugging and staking his way towards another rather efficient fighting machine, who was apparently not a vampire, as he was wearing a gas mask. This accomplice was pretty buff too. Lilah smiled quietly, making a mental note to find out his name and provenance, uncrossed her legs and reached for the intercom.

"Not that this isn't invigorating to watch, but I'd say it was time to pull out," she told the head of the local office, who was quietly having kittens downstairs.

"But! But the auction! Our profit margins!" K flapped helplessly. "The Cleveland branch is depending on revenue from the Mid-Winter Auction to break even for the quarter!"

"Well, you sold the house didn't you?" Lilah replied, unperturbed. "The money will have been wired to our account by now. Have the unsold items – and any sold ones you can find – stashed in the warded safe. Take my word for it, these guys haven't come for booty. And look at it this way. If the party who bought the house should happen to have an unfortunate and fatal 'accident' in all this chaos, you might get away with selling it twice."

K took a moment to absorb the suggestion.

"That's … I'll get right on it. May I just say, Ms. Morgan, that's an inspired notion?"

"Yes, well, that, Joseph, is why _I_ work for head office, and you? Well, you're in Cleveland."

She didn't wait for a response. "Pull out all middle management and above. Evacuate via the back door. Just leave the red-shirts behind. It mustn't look too easy, but I don't want anyone to impede Angel and Spike in their escape, is that understood?"

"Yes Ms. Morgan."

"Good."

She paused, then added, "We do have the money, right?"

~~

Voices – clipped, British accents discussing me … what's to be done with me … To me.

Click-whirr, click-whirr.

A hand, or sometimes a heeled boot placed judiciously here and there.

My head.

My chest.

My …

Click-whirr.

I don't say 'cheese'.

She says: "Let's give _this_ a try, shall we?"

And now I can't hear what she says – are you still taking pictures? – can't hear because I'm screaming and screaming.

Scream till it stops.

I'm making more noises now; such pathetic sounds; hoarse dry sobs as I try to breathe.

Dunno why I'm doin' that.

I'm shaking, but I lie as still as I'm able – waiting for the next lightning bolt.

It doesn't come: not yet.

She says: "Gosh, that's fun! I'm so glad we don't have to rush this."

Oh God.

He says: "Go on! Give him another."

Jerking and arching and biting my tongue this time – tasting blood – but the screams still come.

Heart racing – no; my heart doesn't work.

So why does it hurt so badly when I think of him?

Of the dream I once had?

There's a tug at my waist; something is pulled taut; the stake – the stake with my name on it – they've cut it loose and now I feel its tip.

Every fibre focuses on that one small point that draws the line between myself and the infinite. It grazes my chest, armpits, wrists, throat and thighs, and every other sensitive part in its perambulation.

Now it's over my heart.

Already?

Bloody hell, that was quick.

Is torturing me so boring?

Wait!

I can take more: much more.

You've hardly started …

One of them – my owners – traces the shape of a cross with the point.

'X' marks the spot.

She says: "_Should_ we?"

A wicked voice: rich and dark and empty.

I brace myself for the dissipation of my essence; the blackness of non-existence, or maybe the fires: the fires of Hell.

A shivering breath, almost a whimper – can't help it; maybe that's what they want.

Afraid to speak; afraid to keep silent; I totter on the tightrope between …

The tip presses in, a wooden prompt against my flesh.

"Please –" I whisper; beg her: "Please don't –"

I hear a trickle of delighted laughter, like a cold, cold brook over stones – click-whirr.

Then there's the sound of silk rubbing against some rougher material, and of skin on skin.

The smell of her arousal.

Something – some implement – is nudged between my lips.

It's my stake.

Good workmanship. I can feel the smooth edges of the carving – no splinters – as it rubs against my tongue; grazes the roof of my mouth.

I close my eyes.

Dunno why; they can still see me.

The stake moves on, tracing a meandering path across my chest, around my stomach, and down; rubbing against my thighs, taunting – oh God, here it comes.

Dry-breached, I cry out: roar with pain, and the insult – the invasion; my body trying to spread wider, even as it clenches to resist.

He says: "That's got a rise from the little beggar. Look at him squirm. Did you get that, Camilla?"

Her petulant voice: "Oh, I forgot! I was too busy watching! You'll have to do it again. Remind me how the movie function works."

The stake burns as he pulls it out.

I wait, limp in my bonds. No point struggling. I feel a wet trickle from my hole – that's all it is now: bleeding of course.

She says: "Stand to the side a little this time, would you, dear?"

He rams it home again.

All I can summon for this 'take' is a ragged moan.

At least this time they catch it on camera.

She says: "Thanks so much for this, darling. It more than makes up for that dreadful Unicorn safari."

She caresses my cheek like a lover.

I can't escape her hand.

"All that traipsing through jungle, just to waste ammo on the last of those horrid stocky little brown things. And their _horns_ – so small you could hardly see them. Barely worth mounting. But _this_ –"

She touches me again: not my cheek.

Oh. I wish she'd stop.

"– this completely makes up for it."

Please stop. Please …

And then they're rutting, pressed up against this thing I'm tied to. Sometimes they break off their fornication: stop to touch me again: mocking touches, on my face, or my sex; shaming me, though I know – I tell myself – they're to blame.

Something wet runs down the side of my face … some few tears.

Then the current burns through me once more, from my neck to my groin, and as I stiffen – will myself to silence – she comes.

Her fetid odour washes over me.

I imagine killing them.   
I imagine being rescued.

But no one is coming for me.

One glorious year, I've had: come in from the darkness and the cold, for a brief moment in the sun.

Now the dark is taking me back again.

~~


	3. Sentence First! Verdict Afterwards!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Help arrives.

_`You must remember,' remarked the King, `or I'll have you executed.'_

After a few minutes' brisk activity, Angel and Riley found the opposition dissolving away, apparently too injured, confused or bored to carry on scuffling – at least with them. Angel found the lack of resistance – or even much interest – from Wolfram &amp; Hart's staff suspicious, but there wasn't time to consider the implications.

The main thing was to find Spike: and quickly.

As soon as they'd worked their way to the front of the makeshift stage, Riley pulled off his gas mask. "I'm still gettin' zero from the ring, Angel."

"That's okay. I know where we can find a guide."

Angel got up onto the stage and pulled a screen back, to reveal the auctioneer, still choking from the tear gas, but trying manfully to gather his documents together.

The man's head snapped up. "The money's in a warded safe – I don't know the magic words," he babbled. "I'm just the salesman –"

Angel picked him up by his shirt front. "Take us to the 'pleasure dungeons,' and make it fast. Lot 205, William the Bloody. Where is he?"

"I'll show you. Just don't hurt me!"

Angel put him down and he led them through the side door, to the elevator, but as they got in, the man kicked Angel in the Achilles tendon with the toe of one of his little pointed shoes, and managed to slip out again, just as the door slid closed.

The elevator cage began its rumbling, clanking descent and Angel threw up a hand in frustration.

He and Riley eyed each other nervously: both wanting to blame the other, and yet somehow, at the same time, not wanting to.

"Shouldn't be a big deal," Angel said. "Small fry like him wouldn't have given us any bargaining power. And we still have your arsenal." He indicated Riley's overnight bag.

Riley nodded. "And we still have this," he said, turning the ring on his finger.

Angel gritted his teeth.

As the cage descended, Angel felt a popping sensation. "Did you feel that?"

Riley looked at him searchingly. "Kind-of, like the pressure in your ears equalising when you're taking off, but a whole-body thing."

"Well, I've only been on one flight," Angel admitted. "Pressure equalising. That's what was happening when my ears felt weird, right? Yeah, I think so."

"What d'you think it was?"

"Mystical barrier of some kind – could be to keep certain things in or out. Or maybe some kind of temporal distortion." Angel swallowed, but the strange feeling remained. "I hate those."

"You mean we might get out of here to find a hundred years have gone by?" Riley said anxiously.

The doors rattled open.

"I'll be happy if we get out at all," Angel replied.

They edged along the eerily quiet corridor, until they came to a door. Angel put his ear to it; there was no sound from inside. He pushed the door, and it opened easily.

The room was empty apart except for a menacing presence in the corner: an Iron Maiden.

They went in.

"Still nothing from the ring," Riley said, tensely.

"Might be a magic dampening field affecting the dungeons. Spike could still be …" Angel indicated the object. He didn't want to be the one to look.

Riley heaved in a breath, then went forward and unlatched the catches at the side.

The front swung open.

Both of them jumped backwards, as the stinking, ravaged corpse of some unfortunate and unidentifiable demon – clearly not Spike – slumped to the floor.

"Oh, thank God," Riley said. He bent over, retching.

Angel put a hand on his back, and guided him out of there.

At the next room they came to, Angel could hear multiple heartbeats, all of them very slow, as if in sleep. He nodded.

Riley tried the door; it was locked. He forced it.

All they could see inside was a sprawl of unconscious revellers.

"They look like the group who bought the girl … vampire girl," Riley volunteered. "She was sold just before Spike."

Angel gave the room a cursory glance. "No sign of her. They probably dusted her already."

He pulled the door closed; grim-faced, they moved on.

At the third door, Angel listened again. He could hear two heartbeats. One belonged to a human male. The other – probably a female's – was too fast for a normal human, though not for some of the more ephemeral demon species, or demon-human hybrids.

Riley tapped him on the shoulder. "I feel something," he whispered urgently. "Dunno what. Nothing good, but something. He's in there Angel, I'm sure of it."

Angel put a finger to his lips, and silently mouthed, "Wait."

With evident reluctance, Riley let him make the call.

Angel continued listening.

The woman was speaking. "Its colouring and form are just exquisite. We shouldn't hide it away in the study or the billiard room where only the chaps from the SSC will see it."

She could have been discussing some feature of interior design: the placement of a new chaise longue, or occasional table. She had one of those cultivated and assured BBC accents, and the languid, lilting tone of a woman who knows with perfect certainty that she never, ever, needs to raise her voice to get whatever she wants.

"I mean, know it's an unusual piece for such positioning, but I fancy it would look fabulous in the drawing room. Especially if we could keep it in game-face."

"If you think so darling." That was a male voice: strong but world-weary. "But it seems a shame to split the collection. What do you think old Monty will make of it?"

"Well, it's not as though he's going to have to do any _actual_ taxidermy."

"You … you are joking, right?" That was Spike – and he was unravelling. "You're yanking my chain, yeah? Well, you got me, okay? I get it."

The quaver in Spike's voice made Angel's stomach turn, but he kept listening; trying to work out where each party was positioned, and whether either of the monsters calmly discussing Spike's future had any weapons to hand.

He heard a faint jolting sound; Spike was struggling against something binding him to a hard object.

"You can do whatever you bloody choose with me – I get that, I accept it." There was a note of rising panic in Spike's voice.

Riley hissed, "What's going on?"

"He's alive," Angel said softly. "Wait."

Really, they should go in right now, but in truth, Angel wanted to know how far these bastards would go; to hear them condemn themselves from their own lips and absolve him in advance for anything he might do in the next few minutes.

"But I can do stuff," Spike went on, pathetically eager. "I'll be good. I can be useful. You don't have to –"

There was a time – Angel remembered with shame – when he would have used all his ingenuity to hear Spike plead like that. Not any more.

"Oh, _do_ pipe down," said the bored male voice.

There was the sound of a stinging slap being delivered, and Angel flinched.

Riley was going red in the face, tugging on his arm, but Angel put up a hand and Riley subsided, breathing heavily.

"You know, this could be very useful with Tamara's little problem too," the woman said. "She wouldn't need to go 'cold turkey' … I wonder, why _is_ it always turkey? Why not quail or grouse? … Well anyway, what I mean is, we could wean her off the habit at home, under supervision."

"Don't be a bloody fool Camilla. What if it got hold of her – took her hostage?"

"Well, even if it did, it couldn't take her anywhere," Camilla said. "And besides, the hands could be removed as well."

"_Jesus, no!** Please.**_"

"I thought I told you to shut your noise."

The man's tone was low and threatening, but Spike wasn't able to keep his silence.

"Put me to work, anything – I've got a degree. I could tutor your kids or read to 'em or something. Don't even need a book. Listen –

'Being your slave, what should I do but tend   
Upon the hours and times of your desire?   
I have no precious time at all to spend,   
Nor services to do, till you require.   
Nor dare I chide –'"

"Oh! That's _very_ good!" Camilla clapped demurely. "Julian will _love_ this!"

"_Julian_ ought not to be encouraged."

Angel detected a change of position as the man went on to address Spike.

"Anyway, it's not as though you need legs or arms to recite poetry. And if you're going to babble on like that, I'll have your tongue as well."

That was more than enough.

Angel raised two fingers, then pointed to indicate where the targets were standing. He waited until Riley had drawn his M9 from his shoulder holster, then gave the door an almighty kick.

~~

They burst into the room.

The man facing them had just tossed something into the air, but – despite the interruption – he caught it with ease. He reached casually towards the inside pocket of his jacket, as though to put it away, and Riley fired a warning shot to dissuade him from that manoeuvre.

"Hands in the air."

The man dropped the item, which – being roughly cylindrical – rolled away. He raised both hands above his head; he didn't appear troubled in the slightest.

The woman stepped to the side, away from her partner and closer to Riley, making it was impossible for him to cover both of them at once.

He tried to edge away from her, keeping his weapon trained on the man, who was almost certainly armed.

Angel scented the air; Riley had already noticed it was somewhat rank.

"Careful Riley, the female's a cat woman – _Felix sapiens erectus_. Highly dangerous at close quarters. Don't let her get near you."

In fact, both their adversaries looked extremely dangerous. The man – in his late fifties, but fit, tanned and brutal in designer khaki and desert boots; the woman, thin and elegant – though her jodhpurs and frilled blouse were somewhat rumpled; her eyes sunken, and without a trace of emotion.

Angel dropped fangs, and they manoeuvred the couple into a corner.

The man regarded them with cold appraising eyes. "Who the blazes are you clowns?"

But Angel wasn't in the mood for questions and Riley was too disturbed by what he could see at the edge of his vision, to answer. He couldn't afford to take his eye off the couple to look at the contraption in the middle of the room; it was vital that he keep his focus – but he wasn't made of stone.

"Spike …" he breathed.

He felt Spike respond as though afraid to believe: a thread of hope weaving into the ragged tapestry of his emotions. Not letting his own weapon waver, Riley drew another and threw it to Angel, then risked a look at where Spike lay.

As he did, he saw a flicker of movement. The man done nothing more than to touch his own wrist, but Spike let loose an agonised howl.

With Riley briefly unnerved, the man went for his gun once more, but he was still too slow. Riley got off a shot and Spike's tormentor grimaced, and grasped his elbow to his body, though he made no sound.

Then Riley was almost knocked to the ground; the woman was on him – talons locked out and digging into his arms as she tried with single-minded fury to wrestle the gun from him. Her mate went to her assistance, lashing out with his feet.

Angel didn't risk firing at them as they struggled, but Riley saw him kick the man hard on the outside of the thigh, dropping him to his knees. There was a succession of sickening crunches, then Angel reached down and removed a gun from the man's jacket as he lay – conscious but immobile – on the floor.

But Riley still had his hands full with the cat-woman. Blood ran down his arms as he struggled with her, and his gun fired at the ceiling.

Angel managed to drag her off, but when she saw her partner downed, she went suddenly limp, then swiftly elbowed Angel in the mouth, shrugging him off and making for Riley again.

Riley shot her dead.

~~

Spike had lain like a statue throughout, and at last, Riley was able to go to his side. He touched Spike's arm. "Spike, it's okay. It's me, Riley. Angel's here too. I've … we've got you."

Spike let out a whimper, and as Riley heard the pitiful sound, and took in Spike's condition, a flash of base arousal coursed through him.

He struggled to get it under control.

This was _Spike_; the man he loved.

But seeing him so: obscenely splayed, bound and blinded; every muscle and tendon taut – braced against the medieval contraption to which he'd been secured – it made Riley so hard it hurt.

This was unbearable.

What kind of vile, despicable monster was he?

He would sooner have cut his own heart out than feel this way.

As he tried to tear his gaze away, Riley saw Angel turn a razor look upon him and he couldn't blame Angel for it; he was sickened with himself.

"What's goin' on?" Spike said into the silence. "You still there, Riley? Mate?"

"I'm here," Riley said swiftly. "We're both here."

Trying to shake this feeling, he told Spike, "I'm gonna take the blindfold off now. Close your eyes, sweetheart."

His voice wavered as he uttered the endearment. Was he even entitled to use such words when his own heart was so foul?

He removed the thick scarf from Spike's eyes, and Spike opened them, blinking in the light.

"Ri… Riley? That you? Really you? 'M not hallucinatin'?"

As Spike began to let himself believe it, all the fear and rage and regret and frustration he'd been holding back hit Riley like a freight train. The weight of it, added to the confused morass of his own emotions, nearly crushed Riley to the ground. His face was flushed and twisted with shame at how his body had reacted – was still reacting. The look found its echo in Spike's desperate embarrassment, and fed upon it.

They passed their shame between them like opposing mirrors.

At last, Spike looked away. "I didn't ask for this you know," he mumbled.

Riley couldn't think of anything to say. He dropped to his knees beside Spike's hand and kissed it; rested his forehead on it, silently begging forgiveness.

Spike sniffed and swallowed hard. "Alright you big sap – get up and get me out of this."

Thankful to be told what to do, Riley tried to hide his face while he examined the wrist and leg restraints.

Angel took off his coat and threw it over Spike's lower body, and Riley inwardly chastised himself for not thinking of it sooner.

"Thanks, Peaches," Spike muttered, recovering sufficiently to hide his surprise that his sire was there. "Thanks for showin' up."

"We need a key," Riley said sharply.

Angel went to the man who was still sprawled on the floor, swearing quietly under his breath, his legs at impossible angles.

"Name, pig?" Angel demanded, reverting to the accents of his youth.

"Fletcher-Jarvis, if it's any of your business, bog-trotter."

Angel smiled humourlessly. "Well, Fletcher-Jarvis, there's a little matter of a key. I know you have one."

"What if I'm not minded to give it to you?"

"All the better."

With deliberate disregard for his injuries, Angel searched the man, drawing curses, and threats of legal action. He found the key and tossed it to Riley, who fumbled it, bent to retrieve it and finally managed to release Spike's trapped limbs.

Spike lifted – and tentatively shook – each one. Then he planted his feet as firmly as he could. He wobbled as he tried to stand, and Riley quickly went to help.

Spike gripped Riley's arms tightly to pull himself up. Angel's coat slithered to the floor. Spike watched it fall rather than let go of Riley.

"Sorry – weak," he said, with an apologetic grimace. "Haven't fed for a bit."

"Angel?"

Angel retrieved a flask from the bag and passed it to Riley who opened it and gave it to Spike. Spike looked so fragile, Riley feared he might collapse, so he kept one hand at Spike's back – barely touching him – while Spike held the flask in both hands and took a long drink.

Blood trickled down his chin.

"Messy bugger," he muttered. He handed the flask back, empty. "Don't know where my manners have gone."

Again, Riley was lost for anything to say. He hovered near Spike. He wanted more than anything to hold him, but Spike had turned slightly away from them now, and was leaning with one hand propped against the wall, trying to shield his trapped erection from their view. The position very clearly said, 'keep away.'

Riley wasn't prepared to hurry Spike along, and neither was Angel, so an awkward silence stretched, broken only by Fletcher-Jarvis' toothless threats of reprisals, and grunts of pain. Despite his smashed kneecaps, he was still trying to straighten his legs.

Eventually Spike blew out a breath, jerked his head up and turned back towards them. He indicated the collar, and the other awful device, and said, "What about this magic crap then?"

His voice was thick and cracking.

Angel kicked Fletcher-Jarvis in the ribs to get his attention. "What about the other things? How do we get them off?"

Fletcher-Jarvis snorted. "You've gone to all this trouble – killed my wife, damn you – to snatch my rightful chattel from me. Why the bloody hell would you want to take off its restraining devices?" He leered at Spike. "I think they look perfectly bloody fine on it."

Angel's eyes narrowed to slits.

Riley looked on uncomprehending. "That thing – he can't have been meant to keep that on for long. Surely the damage –"

"My property wears whatever I want it to wear."

Riley felt his face going scarlet. "How long were you planning on leaving him like that?"

The man lapsed into sullen silence.

_"How long?"_

"Until I got bored."

Fletcher-Jarvis flicked an involuntary glance under the restraining device.

Angel followed his gaze, then felt around on the floor and retrieved the object of his attention: the 'commemorative' stake – now caked with Spike's blood. He turned it over and around, contemplating.

"You know, humans amaze me. They have all these fine ideals. They're puffed up with their self-importance, and their moral high ground. And _this_ is what it comes down to?"

He knelt beside Fletcher-Jarvis and held the point of the stake just below the man's right eye.

"You _know_ there are things I can do with this that won't kill you. I won't ask you again. How do we remove those devices?"

At last, Fletcher-Jarvis was breaking a sweat.

"There was some mumbo jumbo – magic words. Don't remember what they were. Big ugly blighter gave 'em to us on a slip of paper – said they were Rumanian. Told us not to use them in here, because they'd release all the other prisoners as well."

"And – think carefully when you answer this question," Angel said with the terrible patience of a glacier. _"Where is the slip of paper?"_

The man gestured towards his dead partner. His face twitched nervously. "She had it."

Riley rapidly searched the female's pockets, but all he could find was a business card. He read it aloud. "'Camilla Fletcher-Jarvis. Supernatural Safari Club Treasurer.'"

He turned it over, just in case there was something written on the back. There wasn't. _"'Supernatural Safari Club?'"_

"What can I say?" Fletcher-Jarvis spread his remaining good hand. "We'd bagged every species on the planet, and eaten most of them. Humans are too easy to pick off, and frankly make unattractive trophies. Had to find something to do." He looked pointedly at Angel. "As an immortal, I imagine you, at least, understand the meaning of ennui."

Angel shook his head. "You know, that's a popular and _annoying_ misconception. Just tell me where I can find the damned incantation, you sick bastard. Because – no offence, but your wife stinks. I'm quite keen to get out of here."

Fletcher-Jarvis's jaw clenched. "She … burned it."

Riley had almost been in a trance as he'd listened to this exchange, but now he snapped back into focus. She did _**what?**_ You mean –"

Angel broke the man's neck.

The casual manner of it shocked Riley. "Angel! He might have been lying! And I thought you didn't kill humans. He was no threat to us, he couldn't even stand up."

"Men like him?" Angel looked grimly at Riley. "Always a threat. And that – that wasn't human. We don't need him – his kind." Angel nudged the corpse with his foot. "But I'll excuse your little outburst. You didn't hear what I heard."

"What? Tell me!" Riley demanded, almost popping with frustration.

"Ask Spike. He'll fill you in."

Riley looked at Spike for confirmation.

"Later, mate," was all he would say on the subject. "Come on Angel – what you got for me? Say the magic words – Rumanian he said. You must have 'em somewhere in that thick skull of yours."

Angel paced the room for a moment, then declaimed, "Deschide-te!"

The collar and bindings stayed stubbornly in place.

He tried again: "Descuie!"

Again, nothing happened.

"What was it he said about the incantation, exactly?" Angel asked, frowning.

"That it would release all the prisoners …?" Riley suggested. "Does that help?"

"'Release the prisoners,'" Angel said contemplatively. "Elibereaza prizionerul!"

The devices clattered to the floor, and Spike moaned with relief, and slumped against the wall. "Thanks," he said. "Now – away with you. Damsel in distress needs rescuing – next-door."

Angel looked dubious. "We checked that room – just a load of drunks."

Spike shook his head pityingly. "You really are dead from the neck up, aren't you? Do me a favour and _check again_. Or just … bugger off somewhere and give a bloke a minute to sort himself out."

Angel glanced down at Spike's painful-looking cock. "Oh. Yes. Sure. Sorry."

Riley made a tentative move towards Spike, thinking maybe he could help in some way, but with a brief shake of his head, Spike made it clear that he too, should go.

It was distressing, that Spike didn't even want him near, but he could get why. He went to follow Angel out, but then he saw Spike making a movement, like taking a ring off his finger, and looking pointedly at Riley's left hand.

Apologetic but firm, Spike said, "Not really something I want to share just yet, love."

That hurt. Riley took the ring off, but it hurt; it really hurt.

While Angel re-checked the next room, Riley stood on guard outside Spike's door. You never knew who might come wandering along, and he wasn't going to leave Spike vulnerable to any more attacks on his person or his dignity.

And he tried to respect Spike's need for privacy; tried not to hear the sounds: muted groans and whimpers, and finally an exhalation of pained relief – but he couldn't block it out. It made him flush, and he was disgusted with himself all over again.

Angel came out of the next room, looking puzzled, and supporting a weak-looking teenage girl. She was shaking and bloody, and clutching a bottle like it was her lifeline.

"Those men – I thought they'd never stop. Then I found I could do this thing – influence them. I told them to drink more, and they did. Thank god. Then I fell asleep." She felt her neck and her eyes widened. "It's off!"

Sounding less than convinced, Angel said, "You're gonna be okay."

He looked questioningly at Riley.

Riley nodded, and they went back in to find Spike gingerly zipping up the pair of jeans Riley had brought along in the ammo bag.

"Times like this, I wish I wore underwear," Spike said ruefully. "Hey, Genevieve."

"Hi." She smiled weakly. "Didn't I tell you it would be okay?"

Spike snorted out a grim laugh.

Angel went over to Spike and murmured, "Spike – you do know she's a vampire?"

"Doesn't matter," Spike told him. "She doesn't want to kill for food. She's like you." He treated Angel to a penetrating look. "Like us."

"Well, on this occasion, she doesn't need to kill," Angel said, indicating Fletcher-Jarvis' body with his boot. "This one's still fresh."

They persuaded her to feed from the corpse, and between sips of blood she took small swigs from the bottle.

"You're right, Spike," she said, wiping her hand over her mouth. "It is easier to stomach when you mix the blood w–"

She retched and lost some of it, but most stayed down.

They stripped the cat-woman's corpse so Genevieve had something to wear, and Spike relieved Fletcher-Jarvis of his desert boots. As he sat on the floor putting them on, he was staring intently first at one corpse, then the other; getting a good look at his abusers, now they were no longer in a position to deny him anything.

When his boots were laced, he accepted a hand up from Riley.

Then he aimed a kick at Fletcher-Jarvis' body; then one at his face; then another, and another, becoming more and more frenzied; grunting as he landed each kick to the head; sometimes leaving the ground completely as he booted the bruised and bloodied object until it lolled, attached to the torso by only a few shreds of muscle and cartilage.

He didn't stop until the man's head looked like a piece of raw meat.

Then Spike stood for a moment, taking in rapid, shallow, hissing breaths. His eyes were wild and distant, but still blue; still looking out of his human face.

Riley looked on in consternation, but Angel only looked grim, and Genevieve, sympathetic.

Then Spike started on the woman, laying into her with even more fury, yelling – _**"Bitch! Fucking bitch! Fucking touch me! Fuck off! Fuck off!"**_

The attack seemed to go on and on, and when it finally lost momentum, Spike was shaking from head to foot, giving voice to high-pitched hyena laugh that was almost crying, and covering his mouth with his hand.

Then he scanned the floor. His eyes lit on the camera, and he stamped on it, sending parts spinning around the room.

That done, he looked up with false brightness – his eyes demented, his lips a tight line – and wiped his hands on his jeans. "Right then," he said. "Ready to go?"

They were.

~~

Outside the room, they found a gaggle of bewildered former slaves milling around. They must have come from the rooms further along. There was also a sizeable contingent swarming up the stairs from the lower floors, which – judging by the state of some of the escaped – were danker and dirtier than this one.

It seemed that when Angel had declaimed, 'release the prisoner', it had indeed released all of them – from their cells, as well any manacles, collars, leg-irons or other restraining devices they might have been forced to wear.

Every one of them looked as though they hardly dared believe their good fortune.

By tacit agreement, neither Riley nor Angel made any attempt to check all the rooms, arbitrate disputes, or decide which – if any – of the freed slaves posed a threat to the general public. Things would get confusing if they tried, and frankly, Riley couldn't have cared less. Getting Spike away from this place was his priority, and he didn't get any argument from Angel.

But Spike wasn't quite so sanguine. Something – someone – caught his attention. He dragged Riley to a halt, and pointed at a confused and carbuncled demon who was standing apart from the escaping prisoners, trying not to be noticed.

"Riley!" Spike hissed. "See that bugger over there? Him, I owe an agonising death."

"We don't have time, Spike, we need to get you and Genevieve –"

"_Not_ while he lives." Spike started towards the individual.

The demon looked pretty sturdy, so Riley instinctively pulled Spike back. Then he realised that to be held against his will was the last thing Spike needed right now, so he let go and just stood between Spike and his target.

"I have to _kill_ him," Spike snarled. "Let me _at_ him."

He tried to slip past, but Riley blocked him again. "Think you can beat him?" Riley said bluntly. "Because I don't. Not right now."

"Then bloody well help me," Spike snapped.

"Can we just shoot him?" Riley suggested. "Agonising deaths take time. We should get out of here while we still seem to be winning."

Spike looked like he wanted to make an issue of it, but then he shrugged. "Sure. I'm not keen to stay here longer than necessary."

Riley nodded and put his pistol in Spike's hands; they were trembling, so Riley stood behind him, and steadied him while he took aim.

As soon as the gun was raised, people of various species began to fall silent, looking to see where it was aimed.

The demon in Spike's sights noticed everyone turning towards him; he glanced around nervously.

"Grevlak!" Spike hailed him like a long-lost relative. "We meet again after all."

Grevlak began to back away, but found himself against a wall.

"I've missed you," Spike said. "It won't happen again."

He squeezed the trigger, and the demon fell dead with a bullet between his eyes.

A general cheer went up; this fellow was clearly not too popular, and after that, many of the prisoners started tagging along behind them. When they got to the elevator, Riley did his best to look blasé, as a motley assortment of beings – some of them of the same kinds he'd seen Professor Walsh blithely dismember – began piling in after them.

They looked just like anyone else who'd been unjustly imprisoned and then miraculously saved, and – having got it into their heads that Riley and Angel were responsible for the miracle – every single one of them shook their hands as they stepped out at the end of the ride.

Riley was decidedly weirded-out by it.

Another thing he was weirded-out by was the fact that the ground floor seemed to be in the same state of chaos as before, even though they'd been down in the dungeons for nearly an hour.

Angel glanced around them and said, "Must have been a time distortion."

How much time had passed for Spike while he had been imprisoned down there?

It must have seemed like an eternity.

Riley put his arm around Spike's shoulders and hugged him close, and though Spike didn't respond, he briefly allowed the intimacy.

Then he pulled away.

Something else had caught his eye: a huge demon who was trundling towards the front door, with Spike's coat stretched over his rather too broad shoulders.

Spike jerked towards him, muttering, "Wait a minute … That's my coat …" then he yelled at the top of his voice, "Oi! Karg! That's _**my coat**_ your big carcass is stuffed into!"

The demon turned his head. He looked alarmed.

"Do we have to kill this one too?" Riley said reluctantly.

Spike turned a penetrating look on him. "No. He gets to live …" He raised his voice again. "So long as he gives me my sodding coat back!"

Karg was already struggling out of it, and eagerly making his way towards them. He handed the coat to Spike with an apologetic shrug. "Karg think it look cool. Not know it yours." He thought for a moment. "Glad you okay."

"Thanks mate." Spike tilted his head and patted Karg on the arm. "You're not such a bad sort – shouldn't be working for these creeps. Go and find yourself a proper job, okay? Inter-dimensional removals or something, yeah?"

"Karg do that," he replied. "Money not everything. Need self-respect as well."

~~

They took both cars – Angel and Genevieve in the Camaro and Spike and Riley in the SUV – and returned to the fleabag hotel, where Riley changed out of Angel's ruined designer gear, picked up the rest of their stuff and paid the bill. He wanted to ask Spike why he'd holed up in such a downmarket place, but decided to save that for later.

Instead, Riley turned to Angel.

"We're all pretty tired, so we should stay somewhere decent tonight. Unless you think we ought to get farther away. Do we need to – I dunno – go into hiding?"

Riley had a feeling Wolfram &amp; Hart were the kind of people who, if they wanted to find someone, there wouldn't be a dimension so remote that you'd be safe there.

"No, I think we're safe for now," Angel said cautiously. "At least, we weren't followed."

"I know – I was checking too," Riley replied. "Did you think that was … a bit too easy?"

"Could be," Angel said, turning non-committal into a fine art. He glanced quickly at Spike.

Riley took the hint, and that conversation too, was put off until another day.

So they booked into a four-star hotel.

Riley enjoyed watching Angel shuffling uncomfortably for a few minutes as they stood at Reception, then finally took pity on him. "My treat," he said, patting Angel on the back. "You just go get us some drinks."

Angel went. He looked very relieved.

This Cordelia must be scary.

While Angel was at the bar, Riley phoned home. "Hi Mom. Mission accomplished. No casualties on our side."

"Did they hurt him?" Sarah said anxiously.

Spike shook his head, then pointed to himself and zipped a finger across his lips.

"Haven't got the full story yet, but he's in one piece," Riley assured her. "He'll be okay."

"Can I speak with him?"

Spike raised a hand, taking a moment to reconsider, then shook his head regretfully.

"Sorry Mom, he can't talk to you just yet. He's … sleeping."

Riley screwed up his face at telling a lie; Spike nodded his thanks.

"When will you be home?"

"I … dunno. We have some loose ends to tie up here. But don't worry Mom, we're safe now. I'll call tomorrow."

When Riley ended the call, Spike said ruefully, "Sorry – can't do it. Speak to her. Not just yet."

"It's fine, Spike. Take all the time you want."

~~

Everything seemed very surreal as they sat drinking in the lounge while their rooms were checked.

Two hours ago: slave auction, time distortion, cock restraints and dead demons; now: simpering staff in livery, anodyne background music, cocktails and potted ferns.

But as Riley now knew at first hand, there were more intersections between the two worlds than most might think. Couples like the Fletcher-Jarvises had a foot in both, and Riley wondered how many of the well-to-do couples he could see sitting around the bar – talking quietly about property values or dinner arrangements – had their own dark reflection; how many let the darkness win; even welcomed it.

"So. What do you guys think I should do now?" Genevieve piped up.

She had barely uttered a word since they'd left the sorcerer's place. She must have been hoping they'd forgotten she was there, in case they decided to ditch her. She'd probably only worked up the nerve to draw attention to herself because they'd already booked her a room for the night.

"Well, you could come back to LA with me," Angel suggested. "I have room. Lots of rooms, actually – if you're serious about not killing humans."

"I don't want to kill anyone unless they're really bad, or attack me. But I won't drink animal blood either. I'm a vegetarian."

"That's a new one on me," Angel said, squinting at her. "Which at my age is kind-of refreshing. I guess we can secure a supply of hospital surplus. It's usually okay when it's just gone out of date."

Genevieve breathed a sigh. "Oh. Thank you." She looked confidingly at Spike. "I didn't _really_ wanna die. Again ..."

"Me neither," Spike said, carefully not looking at Angel. "And I'm fed up of bein' sodding rescued, no offence." He flipped a beer mat in the air and caught it. "Chip has to come out."

"Haven't I been saying that since they put it in?" Riley said, feeling relieved.

"Yeah, mate, I know."

"I've already made a promising contact," Angel put in. "I'll look into it further as soon as I get back."

Spike's eyes widened. "Pouf? You alright in the head?"

"I'm agreeing with you Spike."

"'S what I mean." Spike assumed a worried frown, reached over and felt Angel's head. "You must have taken a knock."

Riley laughed. It was good to see a bit of the old Spike coming out.

It looked as though Spike was going to be fine.

The bellboy arrived, to show them to their rooms.

~~

Considering what he'd been through, Spike had seemed pretty relaxed while they'd been sitting in the bar, so Riley had quietly slipped the ring back on without asking if it was okay.

As they rode the elevator, he found that Spike wasn't relaxed at all. He was waiting – closed off, hiding his emotions even from himself so that he could function in company.

Riley berated himself for being so naïve as to imagine that just kicking the corpses into next week might have been enough to get this out of Spike's system. He must be some kind of a moron to think it could be so easy.

When the bellboy left them at their door, it was with some trepidation that Riley followed Spike inside. All he wanted was to go to Spike – hold him close and hard – but Spike was already spreading his hands out at either side of him, as if to keep a crowd of admirers at a distance.

"Sorry," Riley mumbled, embarrassed, even though Spike's back had been turned when he'd contemplated approaching him.

"No, it's alright. It's just a … thing."

Spike's voice wavered, as if he was afraid of what he was about to say. "See, I have a couple of 'issues' that need sorting out. Couple of bones to pick with you."

He turned towards Riley, his gaze slightly lowered. "You came for me – got me out, which is … great. I'm … er … very grateful."

He looked at the floor, then at the bed, then at the TV; anywhere but at Riley.

"Fuck, who am I kidding? I thought I was done for this time. _Really_ done for. Don't know how I'm gonna thank you. Don't think this is such a great way to start ..."

He swallowed hard and dragged the back of his hand across his nose. "I love you … all my heart, whatever happens. Hope you know that."

'Whatever happens' sounded ominous, but Riley nodded, saying nothing. It felt like Spike was a volcano about to blow its top, but still, Riley could feel the truth of what he said, and it felt … not good, exactly, but rock solid.

His heart stopped hammering.

It was still okay; whatever these 'issues' might be, they'd deal with them.

Everything would be okay.

This was just – as Spike said – 'a thing.'

He waited to see what kind of thing it was.

"But … and this pissed me off, so I have to tell you, right?" Spike glanced at him.

Riley nodded again.

"Need to tell you."

Spike pulled a ragged scrap of tissue out of his jeans pocket and swabbed his nose with it. "Okay, so. Here's a thing. When Angel killed that tosser – Fletcher-Jarvis – you di'n't like it. You thought he should have let the fucker off with the kneecapping, I could tell from the look on your face."

Spike looked him in the eye at last, daring him to deny it.

Riley worried at a quick on his thumb. "Well … it wasn't strictly necessary. Angel killed him in cold blood, while he was immobilised. I just didn't think we were in danger from him any longer."

It felt wholly wrong trying to justify his squeamishness, having seen how vehemently Spike had attacked the body.

"And I didn't know what he'd done to you." Riley paused. "Still don't. Not all of it."

"Do you want to?" Spike's eyes flicked wide.

He had to say 'yes', for Spike's sake. He hoped he could take it.

"If you're ready to tell me, I want to know."

Spike nodded. "Okay. I appreciate it. You need to know what kind of scum'd pay eighty-five grand just to –"

For a moment it looked as though Spike might not be able to go on.

"Take your time," Riley told him.

"It's hard," Spike said quietly. "It's hard for me to talk about … so … we're gonna do a little 'show-and-tell', okay?"

"'Show-and-tell'?" Riley heard the nervous tremor in his own voice, and wished he could have sounded more ready for this.

"Just a taste. Not gonna hurt you. Wouldn't, even if I could. But some of it … have to work up to it, or I won't be able to –"

Spike turned away. He smacked his fist into the room service menu that had been standing up on the table; sent it flying across the room. Then he shook his head. "Just get your kit off, will you, and lie on the bed."

As Riley opened his mouth to ask, Spike abruptly clarified, "On your back."

Not looking at Riley to see whether he was doing as asked, Spike rummaged in the kitbag and found a knife and some rope, and cut the rope into lengths.

He still didn't look Riley in the eye, as he secured Riley's hands and feet to the corners of the bed.

"Trust me?" Spike said.

"Of course."

However disturbed Spike was right now, Riley trusted him completely.

Spike took Riley's left hand in his, and looked at it speculatively. "Wanted back in my head again, eh?"

Riley was embarrassed. "Sorry, I didn't ask, I should have."

"No, it's yours." Spike's voice was small and tired. "You shouldn't have to ask. But it's coming off now, just for a while. Too confusing otherwise."

He took the ring off Riley's finger and instantly went into game-face.

Riley flinched. He shifted uncomfortably in his bonds, but not from fear. It was just that with the ring gone, it felt like a whole finger was suddenly missing: just a pinkie, maybe, but you miss it when it's not there; something that's supposed to be with you always, and isn't. It was an empty lonely feeling, to be deprived of that connection, with Spike standing in front of him, inaccessible, as if he were behind glass.

"Still trust me?" Spike demanded.

"Of course I trust you. Always did before I had it. Why wouldn't I trust you now?"

This was still his Spike, right?

"Always will, ring or no ring."

Spike went and cut a length from the sash cord. Then he came back to the bed and gripped Riley's cock. He worked it so harshly that Riley was concerned Spike might get punished by the chip. But Spike gave no sign of it, and it didn't take much of that treatment for Riley to get fully erect. Then Spike held him – tight – and pinned him to the bed with ferocious golden eyes.

"How about now?" Spike growled.

Riley whispered, "Yes."

Spike looked annoyed by the answer.

"Well … you aren't supposed to. Bloody well play along, okay? Imagine you _don't_ trust me. Imagine I'm your worst enemy. Your nightmare."

Riley wanted to say, 'losing you is my only nightmare', but that wasn't what Spike wanted to hear just now. So he tried to imagine that Spike was a deadly foe into whose hands he'd fallen. But it wasn't possible. Whatever happened, he would never be able to believe that. Anything bad Spike ever did to him – it would be a mistake; some horrible misunderstanding, or something he'd done to provoke it.

Spike let go of his cock – which stayed painfully at attention – and gripped the cord he'd cut between his fists. He pulled it taut, with a vicious snapping sound, then made as though to tie it around Riley – tie him off, as _he'd_ been tied only a short while before.

Riley felt his heart lurch in sympathy. He waited with patient acceptance for Spike to do whatever he had to. But when Spike glanced at him, and saw, not fear, not resentment, but only compassion, he flung the cord across the room, his mouth twisting like he had eaten something bitter.

"Can't. Can't do that to you. But you saw –" He sniffed. "You saw what they did to me – that thing they made me wear. Imagine fucking frustration like you've never felt before. Feels like it's gonna kill you just as much if anyone touches you, or if no one does. Imagine being kept at that edge, not for a few minutes or an hour or even a day. You've been like that for two whole miserable fucking days, thinking – hoping – it might just be window-dressing. That it'll be taken off when you've been sold. And then your new owner casually mentions that you're gonna stay that way. Forever."

Riley knew this part already; but the reminder that he shared the same planet with people who would do that to a man still chilled him to the marrow.

Spike went and got the curtain tie-back, and laid it across Riley's eyes. After that, Riley heard Spike rummaging in the bag until he found what he wanted.

"A stake doesn't mean so much to you, so imagine this is a knife."

Riley felt a sharp point being trailed around his body, over the main arteries, the heart, and finally his throat.

"They threaten you with it – maybe even cut you up a bit. But they don't kill you. Never gonna kill you, never. 'Cos – and this is the kick, right?"

There was silence, apart from Spike's ragged irregular breaths; he was trying to keep it together.

"You're not a person any more, you're an objet d'art. Gonna be handed down the generations along with the oil paintings and the first editions. They're gonna display you in their mansion, with the stuffed lion and the elephant's foot table, and the sodding fungus-demon's head, for all their guests to take a gander or a poke. But unlike the rest of the collection, _you_ won't be dead."

Spike choked out a laugh devoid of humour.

"You've seen those annoying street entertainers that pretend they're statues and scare the willies out of innocent pedestrians when they move, right? Well, like that. Only difference being, you can't walk away at the end of your shift, _**because it never ends, and you're mounted on the sodding wall.**_"

The bed-frame shook; Spike must have kicked out at it.

"What are you saying?" Riley couldn't take it in; couldn't believe he'd heard right. _"Mounted?"_

But Spike continued as though he hadn't heard; just went on in a whisper: "And even if you weren't, you can't escape, because you've nothing left to walk _on_."

Riley went cold.

"And they're discussing you. Talkin' 'bout … how they're gonna cut bits off you,_ talking about it in front of you_ – like you got no feelings. Except they know you have, they just don't care. Discussing where they're gonna make the cuts – what would look most tasteful, above or below the knee? – like you're a bit of _bespoke fucking tailoring_ –"

Spike choked again, his voice filling up with tears he'd been too terrified to shed.

"– and how to stop you bleeding out. Whether to cauterise your bleeding stumps with hot irons, or freeze them, or dip them in hot tar, and what's the best way to fix you t'th' fuckin' wall – brackets, or a bar up through your spinal column – oh, and how to make sure you stay in game-face –"

Spike broke off with a shrill laugh. "Yeah, that would be a problem!"

Riley could hear himself moaning, "No, no, no, Jesus, please, no …" and all the blood seemed to have left his brain; he thought he might faint even though he was lying down. But Spike didn't relent; just kept on talking, telling him more horrors like he would never stop.

"Your hands are gonna get cut off an' all, so it'll be safe for their vamp-junkie daughter to let you feed from her. And their friends and acquaintances and business associates will most likely come round for 'at homes' or afternoon tea or dinner parties and you know damn well someone who fancies themselves a bit of a wit's gonna hang party hats and streamers on you for a bit of jolly good fun – 'Oh, look, Camilla, darling! Look where I've put my –'"

Riley heard a gagging, hiccupping sound, and then a banging; Spike was slamming his fist or maybe his head into the wall, again and again and again, like a bear that's in a cage that's too small; like he was stuck in a loop, and couldn't get out.

Riley tried to break him out of it: "Spike, stop!" – but the thumping continued.

"Spike, stop it. Please untie me."

No response; just more banging.

"Spike, please, you're scaring me."

There was one last crash – louder than before – then a sharp intake of breath through the nose; a shudder as it was let out, and a moment of silence, broken only by harsh sobs.

At last Spike managed to get out a single word: "Sorry."

The blindfold was removed and Spike looked down at him, eyes sullen and full of pain. He untied the ropes, then again put distance between them; went over to the window, where he addressed the curtains.

"So. That was what they had planned for me." His head dropped. "I'd have been pissing myself with fear if I could."

Riley sat on the edge of the bed, shaking his head. "Fuck … Oh, fuck … Those bastards." His face felt wet. He looked up at Spike.

Spike was still shaking. He turned towards Riley, like a martyr facing execution, and took another deep breath to steady himself.

"So I hope you'll forgive me if I don't shed any tears for those cunts – either of them. Reckon we've done their kids a favour an' all, young 'Tamara' and 'Julian.' And if there's any doubt in your mind, I'd have killed the bloke myself – cold blood or hot – if Angel hadn't done it first."

He waited, his jaw thrust out; waited to see whether Riley was going to tell him that was unacceptable; that he was a monster; that this was the end of them.

"You'd have had to get in line."

"Truly?" Spike looked at him with his head on one side. "You'd have done that … for me?"

"Of course Spike. You think I could have let them live if I'd known what they were … Christ! And they'd have got off scot-free."

Riley stood up and took a step towards his untrusting vampire, offering himself again, with his hands out in supplication. "I killed the cat-woman. Shot her … when she attacked me."

The codicil kind-of took the edge off. It didn't seem such a big deal any more, and clearly it didn't seem that way to Spike either; he just kept the same distance between them, edging around the room; ignoring Riley's offer of contact.

"She was just a demon," he challenged. "Not the same to you, is it?"

"Didn't used to be," Riley admitted. "But now? I've changed, Spike. Learned something. Demons, humans – it's not what you are that counts, it's what you do. I don't go along with the death penalty under normal circumstances – never have. But that guy? The two of them really …"

He shook his head. The full horror still hadn't sunk in, and he kind-of hoped it never would.

"If I'd known, I'd have put them down, same as Angel, no question. What I saw was bad enough. That collar … that _thing_ …" Riley shuddered.

"Have to keep your prisoner in line. Electric shocks to the genitals are always a crowd-pleaser," Spike said bitterly.

"Jesus!"

Riley knew; of course he knew the kind of things one man was capable of doing to another; he'd been in Special Ops, and knew what went on when prisoners were being broken down. Maybe that was part of his problem – doors had been opened in his mind, and now they couldn't be closed.

They hadn't called it 'torture', but the dread of having to do it to someone for real was something he'd had to live with. He'd been lucky; hadn't been asked to. The training had been bad enough; screwed with his head; given him bad dreams and sleepless nights for weeks.

Thinking of it being done to Spike ...

Spike's mood softened. He came to Riley then, and laid a tentative hand on his shoulder. "I'm not saying these things to upset you, love. I just want you to know. What Angel did – it was right. Was better than what they deserved."

He seemed to rally a little when Riley didn't contradict him.

"Apart from anythin' else, an eternity of having to listen to those toffee-nosed types yammering on would be cruel and unusual punishment. Some of the stuff I've heard from their sort when I was alive made me want to beg for death."

It was meant as a joke, so Riley tried to laugh, but he felt more like crying.

Spike was beginning to look extremely tired. He went and sat down on the edge of the bed. Then he balanced the stake upright, with the blunt end resting on his palm.

"They stuck this in me too."

Spike said it like he was confessing a sin, his voice subdued and hopeless. His eyes fell closed, and he added, "Up my arse."

Riley looked at the stake. It was twelve inches long and close to three inches wide at the blunt end. There was blood dried into the carvings, for over half of its length. It seemed to grow to fill his whole vision.

"Shit," he murmured softly, squeezing his eyes tight shut. But he could still see it. For a moment, he couldn't speak.

"Riley?"

The fear in Spike's voice made him realise how accusatory his silence might seem, so he said the first thing that came to mind. "Are you … are you okay?" He shook his head at himself. "Sorry. Stupid, stupid question."

Spike breathed again, and replied with forced flippancy, "Healing already. Day or two, I'll be ready to take it again."

"Don't even …" Riley shook his head in disbelief that Spike could even think he was expecting any such thing.

"You say what happens, Spike, and when. I'm not gonna … I mean, we don't ever need to do that again, not that way, not unless you're sure you want to."

He ran his fingers through his sweat-soaked hair. "I'm so sorry … Shit! If we could have gotten there sooner … but we had to wait for sundown. There's no way I could have done it on my own, I see that now."

"'S'okay. I know you did the best you could. 'M here, aren't I? So … everything'll work out."

Riley wished Spike sounded more convinced of that.

"The other thing – it's a small thing, but I have to say my piece about that too. Clear my head, you know?" Spike rubbed a hand over his face. "It's about you. How you were. When you saw me."

The disappointment was plain on his face, and his voice was a thick with hurt.

"You were turned on. Seein' me there, like that – helpless and whatall – you were turned on by it. Still are."

_"No!"_

Riley slammed the flat of his hand against the wall. It was true; but that part of him could go take a walk. He closed his eyes tight; as though that changed anything.

"Vampire here – I could smell it radiating from you – hear your heart racing," Spike said flatly. "Could see it in your face, you know I could. Dunno why you're denying it –"

"I'm not, Spike – I'm not denying it –"

"And if Angel hadn't have been there I reckon you'd have been tempted to take me like that. I couldn't have stopped you."

"You're wrong!" Riley blurted. "I can't deny how I felt. I want to but I can't. Guess I must be some kind of weird sicko under the skin. But I'm not proud of it. It's not how I want to feel, not how I think about you, I swear to God. It's just physical, I couldn't help it. Don't know why … I'd been so worried about you. Thought about nothing else since you left. Then the fighting, trying to find you … and when I finally saw you – knew you were alive – I was so fired up I probably have been turned on if you were wearing striped pyjamas."

Spike snorted. "Maybe. I hope so … I think. 'Cos … I'm hoping you don't want to have me like that – bondage scenarios, not the striped ... Well, that as well … Not gonna happen – neither of 'em, not if I have a choice."

He looked up at Riley uncertainly. "I do, don't I?"

"Don't even ask." Then – because Spike still looked uncertain – he added, "Of course you have a choice. Always. We won't do anything you're not a hundred percent happy about, okay? And I'm relying on you to reprimand me if I step out of line, even for a moment. Tell me off as much as you want, especially now. I mean, we don't even have to hug if you don't want to."

That would be hard – if Spike didn't want any contact at all – but he'd accept it; wait forever if he had to.

Spike dipped his head in acknowledgement.

"I'll admit, Angelus used to just do what he wanted – never asked my opinion whether I liked it or not and mostly not. And Dru. I used to let her get away with a lot of whacked-up stuff, on account of her bein' off 'er trolley. Some of it was quite … stimulating – once I got my head around it. But – it's not me, not if I'm honest about it. Guess I'm a romantic or some such rot. I don't want us to be … like that. All about the kink. The master and servant crap, I'm up to here with it. Want us to be real to each other. I want to be real – not acting out some part."

"I want that too," Riley said. It came out with more force than he expected.

"Sure? You sure it's me you're in love with? Not some idea of me as this pathetic loser? This _thing_ that needs you to charge up and rescue it every five minutes?"

He looked at the floor, to avoid looking at Riley. "Will you still want me when I don't have this chip in my head?"

"Get it out. As soon as you can," Riley said with absolute confidence. "I won't disappoint you, that's a promise. Iowa Promise."

Spike looked up at him now, his face clearing. "You haven't broken one of those yet." He patted the bed. "Come on. Come here to me, you sick pup."

Riley almost tripped over his own feet in his hurry to get there. He blinked hard, and sat down beside Spike, with his hands resting on his thighs, waiting for permission before touching Spike at all.

~~

Spike put the ring on the bedside table and rubbed his knuckles along Riley's jaw. The two days' growth of stubble spoke volumes about what the Kid had been through.

"I've been harsh with you, I know I have," Spike said. "But you mustn't mind me. I'm just an old grumpy-pants. Forgive me?"

Riley nodded mutely, then got up the nerve to ask, "If you can forgive me?"

By way of answer, Spike took Riley's left hand and pressed a kiss on his palm.

"Let's lie you down," Spike said softly. "You've had such a hard day."

So Riley lay down for him once more, and Spike knelt at his feet. He rubbed his forehead on the inside of Riley's calf, then higher, between his thighs, spreading them wide, and Riley let him do just as he wanted. Neither of them had showered, but Spike inhaled the potent cocktail of aromas as though it was honeysuckle and roses and night-scented jasmine – tasted the salt on Riley's skin like it was nectar.

Because this wasn't some fairy tale, or something he'd dreamed up, or some drug-induced illusion: it was real; this man was real. The mingled ingrained stale odours of sweat and musk and explosives told what kind of day he'd had: anxiety and fear and fighting, and lack of sleep and frustration and shame: and it was for love of _him_.

"Thought I was done for," Spike said, a soothing monotone belying the fire that was smouldering at his core. "Thought you'd never find me. Didn't even know if you were real." He rubbed his brow ridges against Riley's entrance and up behind his sac, murmuring, "Shame on me, I gave up – gave up on you. On us. Forgive me."

He brushed the bridge of his nose up the length of Riley's cock, and Riley jerked and let loose a pitiful whine.

Spike drank it in, and he was whimpering too, as he went down on Riley.

And Riley was helpless; came almost at once, sobbing, "Those bastards, those bastards …"

But Spike wasn't thinking about them any more; they were dead and gone; they were as nothing to him, and all he knew – for now – or cared, was Riley's hands were in his hair, and Riley's cock was in his mouth, and everything was alright now.

~~

Riley lay spread out, limp and soaked in sweat, and Spike couldn't get enough of him. Almost, he feared the man might disappear if he didn't take in everything at once; he skimmed over him like a hawk-moth, crooning, filling his senses, taking blood everywhere, and Riley asked nothing, but let him take whatever he needed.

Each time Spike punctured the skin, Riley moaned softly, but Spike had no intention of drinking his fill. Riley would give him every drop of his blood without question, but what he took each time was barely enough to coat a canine, and just enough to drive Riley slowly and remorselessly to thrashing distraction.

It wasn't sweet, this blood: it was acrid; laden with bitter breakdown products, stale adrenalin and lactic, and Riley was borderline dehydrated, but now Spike couldn't stop, taking and tasting and keeping up the sing-song murmuring, thanking him and telling him how he loved him, until the next bite.

~~

Riley closed his eyes, trying to anticipate when and where that next bite would be – chest, stomach, flank, bicep, the inside of his elbow. Each bite sent out shocks and sparks that made him gasp and beg wordlessly for Spike to take more, but this wasn't about feeding.

Spike was making sure he was real; and Riley was going to do whatever it took to convince Spike, that despite the way his body had betrayed him today, nothing had changed about the way he felt. His blood, his body, his love was Spike's, to do with as he pleased.

So he willed himself to lie still; not to touch Spike, just let Spike touch and taste him wherever he wanted, and it seemed that was everywhere. Spike's attentions tore little cries and moans from him as he held himself back from coming again, because it was Spike's turn, and Spike wasn't ready yet. But it seemed like an eternity that his will was tested; until the tantalising examination was done; until his beautiful, broken vampire – strangely vulnerable in game-face – was braced over him, dipping towards him; a scrape of fangs over his bared neck, and that's when Spike started to spill and Riley came with him, only their cocks just brushing together as they juddered and pitched in unison, marking each other with their issue.

Spike collapsed onto the bed beside him with a sigh, and they lay quiet for a while, each wrapped in their own thoughts. Only when Riley felt Spike take his hand, did he finally dare do something for _him_. Praying that enough of the rage and fear from the ordeal had been purged for Spike to accept some small service, he shuffled down and knelt between Spike's knees.

Spike laid his hand on Riley's head, giving him leave, though he tensed – resisted, a little, being spread, and who could blame him; the spirit was willing but the flesh was still tender. Riley kissed the soles of Spike's feet, and Spike whimpered, and let his legs fall open. So Riley went on planting kisses, moving on to his calves and his thighs and Spike relaxed a bit more, letting Riley raise his knees, with only the tentative caveat, "Go easy with the tackle mate."

"Not going to touch it, Spike."

A breathless – "What then?"

"I'm gonna kiss your ass."

Spike gave a shocked disbelieving chuckle, and Riley used the distraction to slide a pillow under him. Then he went back to his work; kissing the smooth pale curves of Spike's buttocks, stroking and persuading and then holding his thighs apart, licking and lapping into the hollows, soothing with soft lips, and then he was doing exactly as he'd said: kissing Spike's ass; abasing himself to his wounded rose.

Spike moaned softly, "Oh no …" and Riley instantly froze, looking up in concern.

"Didn't mean 'no' love. Just that – it can't be very nice down there. Haven't … cleaned up the mess they made."

"Please, let me," Riley entreated him. "Let me do this for you."

Spike huffed – embarrassed. "Well, at least close your eyes. I'm sure you don't want to see my worthless, ravaged hole up close and personal."

"Your _**what?**_" Riley spluttered, raising his head above Spike's knees.

"My … 'worthless … ravaged hole'?"

Spike looked back at him, his expression segueing rapidly from abashed to defiant. _"What?"_

"Come on, Spike, you don't need to fish for compliments," Riley said, uncertainly.

"'M not," Spike said, frowning. "Don't think I was …"

"There's nothing about you that's worthless," Riley protested. "Not to me, you know that."

"Do I?"

Spike didn't look at all convinced.

"God …" Riley rubbed his brow on Spike's thigh. "Carry on like that, you're gonna make me cry again. You're worth more than the whole world to me. You know I was gonna bid for you, right? That was Plan A. I just didn't have enough to compete with those bastards, even if I'd maxed out all my credit. Shit! I could have saved you from –"

"Really?" Spike broke in. "You'd have spent everything you had on me?"

"Of course – and more. Why wouldn't I?"

"Paid more than eighty-five grand … for me …" Spike bit his lower lip. "If you could?"

"Hell, yeah! And just so we're clear – it wouldn't have been _you_ I was buying, it would have been your freedom."

Spike rested his head back on the pillows with a surprised and contemplative, "Huh."

Riley looked expectantly at him. "So …?"

Spike gestured vaguely downwards. "Be my guest," he murmured, still sounding a little stunned.

Riley shook his head, and returned willingly to his task.

No, not a task; it was a sacrament he was allowed to perform: cleaning the dried blood from the brutal rips and tears, and probing gently with the tip of his tongue; worshipping with merciless tenderness, until even a breath of air was enough to make Spike's thighs clench and his soft keening become a more insistent pleading for release.

At last Spike moaned, "Help me, love."

But Riley didn't dare touch Spike's cock; it still looked painfully tender. He kissed the underside of Spike's sac, and brushed it with his nose as he looked up and said, "Tell me how."

Spike's head was thrown back – he wasn't looking at Riley as he begged hoarsely, "Talk to me."

"I don't know if I can –"

"Doesn't … have to be dirty. Just talk … Say … what's in your heart."

"_You're_ my heart, Spike. You're everything I want."

The levee broke, and Riley's words came spilling through, with only soft touches of his lips for punctuation.

"When I wake up and see you lying next to me, so beautiful, I wonder if it's a dream – what I did to deserve this. When you're not there … God, it's like the sun's fallen out of the sky. If I hadn't found you … I can't even think about it. I'd die without you. You're my home. Not the farm, not Iowa, you."

Spike was arching off the bed, as Riley caressed him with his hands and his words. He held Spike open and made himself look again at what those monsters had done to the man he loved, and he promised, "I'd kill anyone you said, anyone. Human, demon, I don't care. They so much as look at you the wrong way, point me at 'em, they're history."

Spike came then, with a harsh cry, spurting into the air again and again.

~~

At last, Spike decided it was time to be the grown-up.

They were both aching, sticky, and covered in wounds that needed tending, so he unpeeled himself from Riley's chest, stumbled to the bathroom, and flicked on the taps. Then he pulled on his jeans, called room service and ordered a jug of orange juice: "Freshly squeezed, mind, none of this reconstituted garbage" – and a large spaghetti bolognaise.

Riley looked at him quizzically. "Hungry, Spike?"

"No, but you are – and you need fluids."

He put the kettle on and made tea, while Riley watched, appreciative, and too exhausted to assist or protest. Spike brought it to him in bed, along with the complimentary cookies. "Get that down you for now – don't want you passin' out."

"Look –" Riley gestured weakly. "In the side-pocket of the overnight bag."

Spike did; he pulled out a packet of cigarettes, and looked at them in puzzlement. "Blimey. Haven't had one of these for … oh, two – maybe three days?"

He got one out and went to light it, then froze in mid-lighter-flick.

"And you know what? I didn't miss 'em. What's goin' on?"

"You weren't feeling yourself."

Spike snorted. "Had enough people feelin' me up as it was."

~~

Riley didn't know whether or not he was entitled to laugh.

"So, I'm thinkin' I might – you know, give up? Or cut back anyways. They're just a prop really – somethin' to do with my hands, steady the nerves. But I can find somethin' else for that – 'specially when you're around."

He curled his tongue in a feeble imitation of his usual seductive mode; he must be leering on auto-pilot, because he looked completely blitzed, and definitely not ready for any more action tonight.

"'S not very good for you … your mum. Al. Bein' around someone smoking.' Yeah, think I'll do that. I'll cut back."

Riley felt his mouth gaping open. Spike smoked. That was one of the things about him. Yet again, he felt tears spring behind his eyes.

"And another thing – want your mark on me." Spike almost looked shy. "Not just this – scent-marking each other, like bloody polecats. Something permanent. You have this." He ran his finger along the scar shaped like a spike – the mark Riley had cut into his own bicep so he would never forget Spike.

"You sure you wanna go that far?"

"When I was in there …" Spike waved a dismissive hand. "In that place, drugged up to the eyeballs, I had nothing. Nothing to tell me what was real and what I'd imagined. If I'd had something like that …"

"You don't scar easily – we're not gonna use holy water. Do vampires take a tattoo?"

Spike thought about it. "Yeah – the Old Man got one. Don't think there was any magic needed. Bein' a vamp prob'ly just makes it scab over and heal quicker."

"I hope you're not gonna want my service number tattooed on your ass," Riley said with feigned horror. "It's far too long and your ass is too perfect."

"Idiot!"

Spike went to punch his arm, but then he pulled it, looking afraid he'd done wrong.

Riley grabbed his fist – made Spike complete the motion, then kissed his knuckles. "Hey, you can do that. Nothing's changed."

"Doesn't seem right, after all the trouble you gone to – me callin' you an idiot. I'm the only idiot around here, gettin' myself caught like that." Spike looked genuinely pissed off with himself. "Should've known better."

He looked sidelong at Riley. "But I don't see how something tattooed on my arse is gonna help me remember what's real and what's not. I know I'm flexible but I'm not a bleedin' contortionist."

There was a knock on the door – their tray had arrived.

~~

With his mouth full of spaghetti, Riley demanded, "So, where do you want it?"

For form's sake, Spike blinked innocently and replied, "Anywhere you want to give it to me, love."

"I meant the tattoo!"

Spike ran his fingers over his left bicep. "Here, I think – matching yours."

"And what kind of thing? Words? A picture?"

"Dunno – we'll have to think about it. Let's get you fed and watered first."

"I'm not a horse, Spike."

Spike stole a glance between Riley's thighs. "Could 'ave fooled me."

Riley nearly choked on his spaghetti.

~~

The bath was full and lavish with foam.

They soaped each other's tired bodies and cleaned each other's injures, with much cursing, and more care, and when they were done, they switched on the TV and flicked channels until they and found one showing a football match.

It didn't matter who was playing.

It was only a game after all.

They let it take up the slack, as they gave and took comfort, until the commentators' nonsense ramblings sent them off to sleep.

~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rumanian translation note:
> 
> Deschide-te! - open yourself  
> Descuie! - unlock   
> Elibereaza prizionerul! – release the prisoner
> 
> The quotation at the start of part 3 is from Alice in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll
> 
> The poem Spike quotes from is William Shakespeare's Sonnet 57


	4. Where Do We Go From Here?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rescued and the rescuers re-group.

It was dark, and he was lying on a meagre bed of some stuff that kept sticking into him, making him itch, and rustled when he moved.

What the fuck?

Spike stood up, brushed the straw off his jeans, and went to take a closer look at his surroundings.

This didn't seem like the kind of place Riley usually booked them into. It was less than spacious, none too clean, and there were distressing but unidentifiable sounds filtering in from somewhere outside.

He felt his way along the walls. They had air holes punched in them – redundant in his case – and they gave slightly when he pressed on them, but he couldn't break through. Either these walls were extremely thick, or he was unaccountably feeble.

By his feet lay a large sheet of cardboard with something printed on it: a mystic symbol? He picked it up and held it near one of the ventilation holes, to get enough light to see what it was.

Just a huge tick mark.

Bugger that!

He wanted a decent Habit-trail, not a crumby shoebox …

Old bits of corn and sunflower seed were scattered around, and in the corner was a metal wheelchair – no, wait: it was a wheel.

He gave it a half-hearted kick.

A familiar, scornful voice said, "Who's the Uncle Tom now, _William,_ you little house leech?"

"Angelus?"

The box transformed into a wooden cabin with bars on the window.

Strange.

He'd never noticed the bars before.

"Gonna stay and be Riley's little tame vamp are you, Spike?"

"Fuck off Angelus. Ain't no place better than here."

Looking out across the fields, he was mildly shocked to see Sarah Finn being chased down by a lion, while in the foreground, Riley stood over Al's mutilated corpse: a puzzled expression on his face, and a gun hanging idle from his fist.

Still – at least while Spike was locked up inside, he couldn't be blamed for the killing, right?

He felt relieved, and faintly disgusted; and safe.

That was until the walls started burning down around him.

Soon there were fires everywhere – burning rubbish, burning cars, burning houses.

His arms were pinned under leather-clad knees. The Hellion, Roadkill, was holding him down on the asphalt. He struggled to get free, but despite his efforts, Jet was efficiently stripping him of his jeans. Blood streamed from her nose, and dripped onto his thighs.

Above him, a structure like a crane designed by lunatics tottered and threatened to crash down on them all.

It gave him an excuse not to look at Jet's face. He studied the edifice as she violated him dispassionately, only her barbed phallus moving inside him.

"I doubt that his human Master will be too interested in poor Spikey afterwards," she said, as if she were discussing the weather. "Not when he sees what a mess we've made of him."

"He's not … not my master," Spike gasped out.

Her angled spines bit into him, ripping him as she pulled out.

He bit back a howl.

"Sorry Spikey, did I hurt you?"

She caressed him, making him stiffen despite himself.

Not this again, _please;_ not this …

Detached and curious, she said, "Is this how he used to touch you?"

He thrashed, moaning, "No, hurt me. Please hurt me."

"Geez! You're too easy."

Roadkill spat on him; they loosed their hold, turned away with bored expressions, and were gone.

Leaving him standing over a washbasin.

He looked into the cracked mirror, expecting the usual absence of self; but a scarecrow was looking back at him – a terrifying mendicant version of himself.

He squeezed some clear gel from a tube onto a wire brush, and scrubbed his rotten teeth again and again, until his mouth was ragged and bloody.

~~

Spike's eyes flew open.

He sucked in a lungful of air and almost choked on the blood filling his mouth; game-faced in sleep, he'd bitten his tongue. He swallowed it down, and lay still for a moment, just breathing; waiting for the horror to fade.

Then he turned to check that Riley was beside him. He was; sleeping peacefully. Spike reached out and touched his shoulder. Then he sighed and sank back onto the pillows.

Just a dream, thank God: this time.

When did it become so hard to tell the difference?

A play of golden light through a chink in the curtains outlined Riley's profile: beautiful. With a feeling of regret, Spike slid out of bed and pulled the curtain closed.

Couldn't be too careful.

As he stood by the bed, watching Riley sleep, the dream spread a black cloud of poison through his waking thoughts.

Was it true?

Any of it?

'His human Master': was that what Riley was to him? Maybe being tamed by one person – the right person – was a good thing. Better than being Angelus' whipping boy and sometime plaything; Drusilla's cuckold and care-worker.

At least Riley seemed to respect him.

'Tame.'

He tossed the word around in his head. He didn't feel tame; he felt normal; sane. But he'd been messed about so much, would he even know? Having this chip in his head was like a mental castration; it was bound to make a bloke feel less of a man, knowing there were situations where he couldn't even _try_ to fight back. Maybe that was why the Cleveland crowd had seemed off with him.

But what would happen when the chip came out?

The thought that he might hurt Riley, or worse – harm his folks; force Riley to stake him. It made the room seem cold. It was like that fear when you stand near the edge of a cliff; the fear that you might jump.

What had he felt for Riley, before the chip was forced on him? When he'd accepted that first shocking, unlooked-for kiss, or later, when – against all expectation – Riley had come back to give his blood, even after Spike had called him a Nazi? On that last night in the cells, when Riley Finn had got on his knees to him for the first time?

Jesus! Just the memory of it made him weak.

It had been love, even before he was chipped: he was sure of that. He wouldn't – couldn't – have owned it, not then. But every time he'd denied it – even to himself – he'd known he lied.

Spike ran a hand lightly over the covers, tracing Riley's sleeping form, and then slipped back into bed beside him, mindful not to wake him.

It would still be love, when the chip came out.

He would never hurt Riley.

Just have to go careful – take proper precautions, at least to begin with: serious precautions.

Couldn't let him down.

Spike stole a sidelong glance at the man lying beside him, sleeping the sleep of the just bloody gorgeous. What must he himself look like? Not his dream-reflection, he bloody hoped. But still, after the last few days, he probably looked like what he was – the walking dead.

What if Jet had been right?

Shit, Riley could have his pick of girls – guys too, if that was really what he wanted. Last night, Riley had kissed him, _there;_ even cleaned his injuries with his tongue. But he'd also said, 'We don't ever have to do that again.'

Why had he said that?

Perhaps it meant Riley didn't want him that way any more. And why _should_ he make do with damaged goods? Riley was one of the good guys alright, but that was the problem. If he was following his principles and not his heart – if Riley was just trying to be kind; staying by his side out of pity – how long would that last?

And if Spike had the balls to go through with what he was contemplating doing later on – dropping yet another bombshell on the poor blighter's head – the man could hardly be blamed if he decided to shop around.

Just the thought of Riley making love to someone else made Spike ache and throb. Envy of the imagined rival sharpened his need for something more than the tenderness and comfort he'd been given last night. He glanced across at Riley – still asleep – and treated himself to a couple of harsh pulls, tensing and making the bed springs creak.

Still, Riley didn't wake.

A wholly unreasonable stab of resentment was quickly followed by a loathing for his own selfishness.

Shouldn't wake Riley – they'd only slept for four hours, if that. Should just slip out to the bathroom and take care of business for himself, not burden Riley with his half-crazed imaginings.

And trying for a last pity fuck?

That would just be pathetic.

Still …

He sidled closer to Riley and pressed against him, taking him in hand.

~~

Riley felt like he was surrounded with a huge warm glove that was stroking him all over, inside and out. He was aroused, but there didn't seem to be any need for urgency, because he was safe and happy, and Spike was there.

Oh! Spike!

Somewhere along the way, the ring had returned to its home, on his left hand, so Spike's physical presence was just an added bonus. Spike was inside him, warming him from the core.

He sighed and sank back, preparing to let himself bake.

But despite his best efforts, wakefulness was taking hold, and Riley found that the heat blazing at Spike's center wasn't just love, or even lust: it was white hot burning of synapses that had been fired a few hundred times too often as the thoughts shunted around them on a circular track; it was confusion, jealousy, and desperation, and Spike was astride his hips, rocking forward and back, grinding on him as though preparing to ride him, looking down on him with hungry, haunted eyes.

Shocked awake, Riley tried to rouse himself enough to speak, but his head was still fogged, and his throat still rough with sleep, so it came out harsher than he'd intended.

"What're you doing, Spike?"

Spike flinched as if he'd been stung. "What does it feel like I'm doing?" He tilted his head like a worried bird. "Don't like it?"

Riley's cock was definitely signalling its approval; Riley took Spike's hand and kissed it, and let him test the evidence for himself.

But that wasn't enough for Spike; he tongued his lower lip. "Put that thing where your mouth was last night."

Riley snorted, amused and slightly embarrassed.

"I know. I know you want to … but it's too soon – you're still damaged –"

"Oh." Spike's seductive look crumbled into defeated acceptance. "Not good enough for you, eh?" He blinked hard. "'S okay. I know it's not too pretty down there."

"It's not that, and you know it," Riley said patiently, stroking Spike's lean chest and running a finger down his breastbone. "Want to wait till you're ready. No need to rush into it."

"Thought you always said you should get straight back on the horse when you fall off?" Spike said in tentative challenge. "What if I'll never be ready, eh? What if I get a mental block about it? Waiting might make it worse, you thought about that?"

Spike took Riley's balls in both hands, giving them a gentle squeeze, and Riley gripped his wrist, trying to dissuade him from unfair means of persuasion.

"I told you – we never have to do that again. It's your call."

"_My_ call?" - Spike snapped, flicking his hand away.

Riley wasn't sure what he'd done to cause offence. Spike was clearly determined to put the worst possible interpretation on whatever he came up with. Perplexed, he looked up at Spike.

"Yes?"

"So – you'd only be doin' it for me? Don't want me like that any more, is that it?" Spike looked at the floor, muttering, "Don't offer my arse up to just anyone."

"I know that."

Riley took Spike's chin and turned his face back towards him, thumbing his cheekbone. "I want your … ass. I do. And all the rest of you. But after what happened … it's gotta be better for you if we wait."

Spike dragged himself disconsolately off of Riley and perched on the edge of the bed with his elbows on his knees, staring at his fingernails.

"It was only a bit of wood they stuck in me, not their …" He swallowed. "Didn't get defiled, if that's what you think."

"'Defiled'!"

Riley almost laughed, but he saw that Spike was serious. It was easy to forget how old-fashioned his partner could be sometimes. He touched Spike's face gently with the back of his hand.

"You know I would never think of you like that, even if they had … you know … It's not like you had a choice."

"What if I had?" Spike said in a flat tone.

"Had what?"

"If I'd had a choice," Spike clarified. "Didn't tell you this last night, but I was down there a long time. Hours. Had time to think, in between screamin' and begging for mercy. Time to study them. I was gonna try and find some way of fucking with their heads – getting one of 'em on my side, or both fighting over me – if I got the chance before it was too late."

Spike's voice grew quiet.

"Would have done just about anything to stay in one piece. Given them anything. Sex … whatever they wanted. Bit like the way I did with you … at first."

He glanced nervously at Riley then quickly away again.

They'd never really talked about exactly when Spike's feelings for him had undergone that sea-change from survival tactic to something real; Riley suspected that even Spike didn't know – not really – and though he was momentarily perturbed by Spike's admission, he rolled with it.

It didn't matter.

This was Spike.

"I don't care. You were under duress, I know that. Those situations, you do what you have to, to survive. I just don't wanna hurt you."

Then Spike was on him, in his face, leaning over him gripping his shoulders with painful urgency, pinching his nipples, scratching his chest, and almost spitting words at him. "What you don't get is, I don't _care_ if it hurts. Want to forget _that_ ever happened. No posh dead bastard's gonna control me – what I do."

Spike took hold of Riley's balls again, but roughly this time, rolling them in one hand and mauling his cock with the other.

It made him wince, but Spike just took his gasps and whimpers of pain and arousal as his due. He ignored Riley's attempts to soothe him, or take the sting out of his assault. His eyes were wild and frantic, the pupils blown wide, almost eclipsing the surrounding blue.

"I'm free now. It's my arse, I'll do what I want with it. Want you in me _now,_ love."

Right at this moment Riley felt more like Spike's whore than his 'love', and the endearment was like a slap in the face.

But Spike didn't even notice his distress. "Want you to take me," Spike demanded. "Flush them out of me."

_** "What?"**_ Riley felt his face redden. "_'Flush them out'?_ What am I? A toilet cleaner?"

The words echoed like a death knell in the silence that followed. Riley fought for air to get out a desperate retraction –

"**_NO!_** I didn't mean –"

But the look of shock that flickered across Spike's face only lasted a microsecond; then he was closed off, taking the unintended insult on the chin.

"Fine," he said. "If you won't do it – don't want to do it – I'm sure I know someone who will."

Riley's heart lurched.

How had this had happened?

It was a helluva way to start the day.

He was tired and confused, and before he could think straight, everything he'd bottled up during the drive from Iowa came spilling from his traitorous lips.

"Door's there. Angel's just down the corridor, room 320. You don't have to make a big scene – I'm not your keeper. You can fuck who you want to. Want someone who likes to hurt you?"

Riley had to pause to breathe. His heart was racing painfully, but now he'd opened the floodgate there was no way to close it.

"You want _him_? More than me? You're a free agent. Go _to_ him if that's what you want."

Outrage and hurt and confusion fought for control of Spike's features. He pushed himself off Riley and away from the bed.

Riley felt the floor drop out from under him. One thing was keeping him from losing it – the echo in his guts that told him that Spike was falling too. But the ring could only tell him what Spike was feeling; what he'd do about it was another thing entirely.

Riley waited, not daring to utter another word.

Spike stood in the middle of the room, looking wildly about, like a cougar in a trap. He glanced fearfully at the door-handle as though it might strike out, or jump into his hand. His eyes flaring orange, he looked uncertainly back at Riley. His nostrils twitched. He closed his eyes tight, almost vamping-out to control the forces at war inside his brain.

At last, he took a couple of steps away from the door.

"Only … only want you."

Riley breathed again. He lay still, closed his eyes and counted in his head. He meant to count to ten, but he opened them on five.

Spike had silently taken another few steps towards him.

With more composure than he was feeling, Riley said, "That's better." His voice was hoarse.

Shamefaced, Spike bit his thumb. He let his arms fall limply at his sides, and said the last thing Riley was expecting.

"Sorry." He came closer and stood by the bed, offering his hand.

Riley took it, and held it; then he was pulling it towards his face and rubbing his forehead on it and then kissing it all over. Then he just kept holding it like he'd never let go.

But Spike still wasn't giving up.

"Riley, _please_ …" Spike swung their hands petulantly. "I'm a vampire. I'll heal. But I'm not havin' those cunts stopping me doin' what I want – having sex how I want. They're dead now. I don't take orders from dead losers." He pursed his lips. "And that includes Angel, if you want to know."

Then Spike threw himself on the bed and raised his ass in the air.

"C'mon, Riley. If you don't – I'm still strapped to that thing, with no choice. Still belong to them. Come on … as you love me."

For some reason – God or someone must know why – this was very important to Spike: pivotal, even. Riley sighed deeply. He'd never felt comfortable taking Spike this way. Spike could take him any way he wanted, but Riley always felt this position pandered to the broken side of Spike's psyche; made him feel less than he was, even if he denied it.

But Riley's reserve of courage had been used up when he'd offered Spike an easy out. He still couldn't believe he'd had the nerve to suggest Spike go to Angel, and silently gave thanks that Spike hadn't taken him up on it. After last night – seeing how traumatised Spike had been by his time in captivity – it wouldn't have been a complete surprise if he had.

But he hadn't gone.

He hadn't gone.

So – trying to do it with good grace – Riley slicked himself up, and then turned his attention to Spike.

Spike was healing already, just as he'd claimed, but the injuries still looked raw and quite ragged. Despite Spike's insistence they do this, he was very tense and tight when Riley tried to ease himself in.

Riley kept most of his own weight off Spike on one arm, and wondered wryly, as he petted the nape of Spike's neck and stroked his ribs, whether his army PT instructor would be pleased to know that many years' practice at one-handed push-ups wasn't being wasted.

"Okay, steady now," he said. "Take it slow. We got all day …"

But though he was careful, he could tell Spike was holding in the pain, because he was never usually this quiet. Riley dipped and kissed Spike between the shoulders. "I'm hurting you," he murmured. "I hate hurting you."

"Please Riley –" Spike forced the words out. He was trying to sound relaxed but failing. "Anyone's gonna hurt me … should be you. No one else has a right to."

So Riley shook his head, and sighed, and sweated and laboured, but it didn't feel right, and neither of them was getting anywhere near.

At last Spike slapped his hand on the bed like a wrestler submitting. "Okay, luv, we can stop – if you want. Give it a rest, yeah?"

Riley pulled out, sore but relieved. He slumped down on his back, pulling the sheet up over himself and looking earnestly at Spike. "You okay?"

Spike nodded, embarrassed. "Just wanted …" He shook his head. "Don't know what I wanted. Just to be sure –"

"Was it a test?" Riley asked anxiously. "Did I pass?"

Spike's face cleared. "Sure you passed. We both did. Flying colours, mate."

Riley drew Spike's face towards his, and they exchanged forgiveness in a gentle, searching kiss.

After a few moments Spike palmed Riley's cheek away. "You know the worst part?" he said quietly. "Worst thing they did? Wasn't the pain. That was bad, but I've had worse. Worst part was when it didn't hurt. When they made me feel …" He closed his eyes tight. "They made me feel so dirty … like I was betrayin' you. Didn't mean to."

Spike looked worn thin.

Riley laid his hand on Spike's shoulder. "You might feel dirty, but that's not what I see when I look at you – never."

"'S not fair – you havin' to deal with this."

"It's what I'm here for. Don't ever forget that. Good times, bad times – doesn't matter. I'll be whatever and wherever you need me."

With a nervous catch to his voice, Spike said, "So … what do you see then? When you look at me?"

Riley smiled a quiet smile. "My unicorn."

Spike cocked his head. "Why am I –"

But Riley stopped his mouth with a kiss.

~~

The day was bright and fine, so there was no question of setting out for home until dark, but Spike seemed relieved by the delay. In fact, Riley detected a definite reluctance to discuss the journey at all.

"Leave it till we meet up with the others, yeah?" – was all that Spike would say on the matter.

While Riley had no objection to spending another night at the hotel if that was what Spike wanted, it did make him wonder why. Maybe it would be easier for Spike to process what had happened to him on neutral territory, rather than going home and having to face a butt-load of questions and sympathy – however subtle or well-meaning – with the memory so raw.

As they passed the morning, Spike would be doing something mundane – making tea, or flicking channels, or re-arranging the pillows – when he'd casually drop another detail of his captivity into the conversation.

"That ugly bugger we killed? Know what he did to me?" or, "Of course, Grevlak wasn't the brains behind the business. There was this little poncey git in a suit …"

And so the information was released, piece by tortuous piece, making Riley wince and curse, and wish they'd been able to take out the top dogs and put the whole operation out of commission: though that would clearly have been too much to take on.

It wasn't all bad. He found out why the one wearing Spike's coat – a transgression he'd expected to be treated as sacrilege – had been spared, and how Spike and Genevieve had met, and become friends. At least Spike hadn't been completely surrounded by hostile faces.

But though the worst seemed to be over, this thing had quite a half-life, and mostly, when he tried to hold Spike – comfort him – he was shrugged off: not unkindly but firmly. Spike was still holding something back, even now – holding it in tight.

As they lay side by side on the bed, Riley took a shot at drawing it out of him.

"I'd have found you – you know that, right? If they'd already taken you away somewhere before we got to you. Even if they'd taken you to the other side of the world, I'd have tracked them down and got you out."

Spike grimaced. "You'd have been able to put me out of my misery then."

_"What?"_

"If they'd already done what they said – the amputation thing. If they'd left me my tongue, I'd have begged you to stake me."

Riley didn't want to believe what he was hearing. "There's no way I could do that, Spike, no way."

"Come on Riley. I know what it's like bein' in a wheelchair – what _I'm_ like. It damn near drove me out of my mind, and that was only for a couple of months. I couldn't live like that forever. Helpless … trapped. I'd be insufferable. What kind of life would that be? For either of us?"

Riley hadn't really thought about it; the prospect was so horrible, he'd been trying not to. When he tried to think what he would want, if he lost the use of all his limbs, he could kind-of see Spike's point. But he wasn't going to admit defeat, even though the awful event hadn't come to pass.

"You could still get out," he said. "I could have driven us places." He brightened. "And you could ride a horse – you'd be okay on a lead rein."

"A _**horse?**_" Spike boggled. "I never even learned to do that with all my parts attached. I was petrified of the bloody great things. Big hooves and teeth everywhere." He shuddered. "And even if I wanted to, how could I ever _hope_ to ride a horse with no hands or feet?"

"Don't need either of those things to ride – not a good horse, and I have more than one of those."

Spike snorted and shook his head. "Bloody glad it didn't come to that. But seriously, Riley – what good would I be to anyone? To you, to myself – no legs? No _hands_? Imagine it." His voice subdued, he went on, "What if they'd already gone the whole hog and stuck a re-bar up my spine – pinned me like a sodding great vampire butterfly? What use would I be then?"

They were lying face to face on the bed, neither avoiding the other's gaze now.

"You're askin' the wrong question, Spike." Riley petted Spike's temple with his knuckles, and this time, Spike allowed it. "Question isn't what use you'd be. It's what use I could be to you."

"Meaning what?" Spike asked tentatively.

"Meaning, I want to be with you, always. I don't _want_ anything bad to happen to you like that, but if there's anything you can't do for yourself – anything at all – I want to do it for you. Take care of you the best way I can, for as long as you need it."

Riley reached out and pressed the palm of his left hand against Spike's lips; Spike mouthed his hand gently, not breaking the skin.

"I'd feed you my own blood, every day –"

Spike opened his mouth to protest but Riley stilled him with a glance.

"Or, okay, if I couldn't give you enough, I'd make sure to get you the good stuff – hospital grade. I'm sure there's a way."

He took Spike's hand and kissed the palm.

"I'd make sure the cabin was always warm for you."

Spike's wondering eyes were on him, hypnotised by the sight of Riley kissing each fingertip in turn.

"I'd get you one of those fancy stacker units that play ten different CDs at random, so you wouldn't be too bored if I got held up. Train Jess to change the TV channels for you."

Riley punctuated each dreamily spoken promise with a kiss.

"In the daytime, I'd get my mom to read to you."

Spike's eyes widened with shock. He shook his head at the thought of Sarah seeing him in that state, but Riley insisted, "She'd want to."

"Sodding hell, Riley, I'd be a burden to you all …"

"No. Not a burden. You'd never be that. You'd be my personal household god. Because whenever I got home, the first thing I'd do would be to get down on my knees and worship you." Riley's voice cracked a little. "Suck you off until you begged me to stop …"

~~

Spike caught his breath.

The picture Riley was painting of what their life might have become was bizarre beyond comprehension, and cloyingly erotic: to be completely at the mercy of another: not a monster, but a gentle, caring lover. Having all your needs taken care of and being able to give nothing – do nothing – in return for such total, uncompromising love.

He was shaking inside; his throat was tight, and he was tearing-up at the thought if it. The surfaces of Riley's eyes were shining too, and Spike had no doubt that he would have made good on his promises.

"Bet you wouldn't," Spike said, his voice wavering. "Bet you'd tease me unmercifully. Never touch me, even if I begged."

Spike grew breathless at the thought. He ghosted a hand down the contours of Riley's body, just close enough to touch the soft golden hairs, and earned a sharp hiss of breath from Riley.

"I'd be stuck there on your wall, and you'd be touchin' yourself – jacking yourself off, right close by, while I could only look on, wishing I could wrap my lips round that gorgeous cock."

He rolled slowly and raised himself on his forearms, languidly tormenting himself on the sheets, and looking hotly at Riley from hooded eyes.

"You'd bring your new lovers home. Make me watch while you fucked them – Todd and the others."

Then he was rolled onto his back and pinned under Riley's weight, and shown how very much Riley wanted to touch him, everywhere he was able.

~~

Mid-afternoon, they went along to Angel's room, to catch up, and see what was what.

Angel opened the door, smiled encouragingly and stood well back to let Spike enter. "You okay?" he asked with unusual solicitude.

"I'm good. Fine," Spike said, a little suspicious. "Thanks for askin'."

"Good. Good," Angel said.

Spike sensed that Angel was about to put a hand on his back, and slid away before that could happen.

"So, I guess we'll be heading back soon," Riley said brusquely. "Going our separate ways."

"How are we getting to LA?" Genevieve said – clearly still worried she'd be left behind.

"Fly, I guess," Angel said without enthusiasm.

"I don't have any ID."

"Can't you get hold of some?" Angel asked.

"And I'm scared of flying," she added quickly

Then Spike remembered that Genevieve had killed her next-door neighbour. She must be worried her ID would just confirm her identity as a murder suspect, and after what Angel had said about not killing humans, she was probably afraid to mention her little dog-avenging indiscretion. But it didn't look as though the Pouf was too keen on flying either.

"It'd be a bit dodgy anyway, wouldn't it?" Spike put in. "Two vampires, on a scheduled flight? Gen's not used to the sunlight avoidance thing, and neither of you can shield the other if there's a problem."

Genevieve flashed him a look of gratitude.

"Well, they could take the SUV," Riley volunteered. "We'll fly out when Angel's got your chip-removal organised, then drive back when we're done."

Spike had been about to suggest something along those lines, but his jaw dropped at how easily Riley had made the offer. Riley might pretend that his love of his vehicle was a big joke, but Spike had seen the look in his eyes when he was cleaning it; knew how careful Riley was, about checking the oil and water and putting air in his tires whenever it was needed; always getting it serviced on schedule.

"Come to think of it, I need to get the spare tire replaced before you leave. I'll go do that now – get the vehicle checked over." Riley pushed his chair back, ready to put his plan into action.

Spike put a hand on his arm. "It's a good idea, but wait till dusk, yeah? Then I can come with you. We can find me a tattoo parlour. Get some ink done, like we said."

"Today?"

"Why not?"

"What's the rush?"

"Not rushing," Spike said, frowning.

Riley shrugged and refrained from challenging him in front of the others.

They looked in the phone book and found several tattoo places open after dark, so in the meantime, they ordered tea for everyone, except for Angel, who made do with Spike's last flask of pig's blood. Spike tried to persuade Genevieve to take a little, but she refused to contemplate it.

Angel and Spike exchanged worried glances.

At this rate, she'd have easy sewer access by the time they arrived in LA. She'd be so thin, she'd just slip straight through a grating into a storm drain.

~~

"Well, that was … mind-numbing," Spike muttered as soon as they were out of earshot. "The long winter evenings in LA will just fly by for those two."

Dusk had fallen, and Spike had taken that as their cue to leave Angel and Gen in the bar, where they were engaged in a discussion about whether invertebrates had souls. Genevieve was of the opinion that at the very least, octopuses and squid had them – and probably crabs and lobsters as well. Angel's pet theory was that it might depend on what type of blood you had, rather than whether you had a backbone; one thing he was pretty sure of, was that dogs had souls, and Genevieve had been quick to agree.

"Aren't you even curious about that stuff?" Riley asked Spike.

"Yeah, well, curiosity killed the cat," Spike said. "If she convinces him all the rats he's ever eaten had souls, he'll be even more guilt-ridden than ever."

~~

When they'd changed the tire, they drove around for an age, looking for the tattoo place they'd selected. It seemed to be equipped with a cloaking device. Spike was starting to get anxious, and not just about his personal artwork. He tried to hide it, but he could tell he was making Riley uneasy.

"Why the hurry Spike?" Riley said. "We can get it done tomorrow, or next week. Give yourself a chance to work out what you really want. You'll be wearing it for a long time, and I hope you're not going to forget me in the next few days – I'm right here. Not going anywhere without you."

Riley looked across at him with a reassuring smile, and Spike felt a sinking in his guts. He couldn't keep up this pretence much longer. He quickly masked his expression, and felt a heel for doing it, but the ring must surely be telling Riley something was up.

Riley did look unnerved, but he shifted in the driver's seat and got his eyes back on the road. "In fact, next time you go to work – Cleveland or wherever – I want to come with you."

And it was what Spike had been longing to hear – waiting for Riley to say since he'd started this Cleveland business, even though he might have fought him over it. But this was the wrong time.

"No. It can't wait," Spike insisted. "I want it done now."

Riley pulled the car up at the kerb and turned to face Spike. "Why? You haven't even picked a design. Why's it so important you get it done five minutes ago? Is there some mystical significance to today's date?"

Spike twitched and looked away. "Guess I have to tell you sooner or later."

The colour drained from Riley's face. "Tell me what?"

Here goes.

"'M not coming back to the farm with you Riley – not just yet. Not till the chip's out. Maybe … maybe not even then, not right away"

_**"What? Why?"**_

Riley looked like he was going to have a heart attack; either that or throw up.

"You can't even wait until Angel's got it set up before you go running off to LA? You have to go with him now?"

The broken look on Riley's face was nearly making Spike change his mind, so he looked fixedly out of the windscreen.

"Why can't we fly out together and come back in the car, like we planned?" Riley demanded.

"Like _you_ planned Riley, like you planned." Spike patted himself reflexively. "It's not that simple."

Riley gripped Spike's right arm, turning him so that he was forced to show his face. "Is this to get back at me for saying you could go to Angel?"

"No!"

"Because, I didn't mean a word of that. Some crazy person said it – or maybe I was possessed." Riley slapped himself on the forehead. "Yeah, that's it, I was possessed."

Spike pursed his lips, trying to play down the drama for once, in the hope of getting the bloke's vital signs back to normal.

"Don't blame yourself mate. It wasn't anything you said or did. I'd have had to do this alone anyway."

"But you won't be alone – you'll be with –"

"Broody-pants?" Spike raised an eyebrow. "Just as well be alone – almost."

Riley took the steering wheel in a death grip, even though they were parked.

"So. Why?"

Spike shook his head. It was complicated, and though none of his reasons – taken alone – seemed adequate, when they were put together they gave him no choice. But it was hard to know where to begin, and Spike motioned with his hand as though to grab the trailing thread of an answer out of the air.

"I just – look how I've been behaving lately. 'Specially since this latest little adventure. I'm embarrassin' myself – puttin' you through the wringer an' all. Need to get away for a bit – sort myself out."

"But I only just got you back," Riley pleaded desperately.

Spike's face hardened. "I'm not a bloody suit that got lost at the dry cleaners. You don't own me."

"I know," Riley said, looking chastened. "Sorry."

Spike sighed. "I'm sorry too. But see? I shouldn't be snapping at you for being upset. I'm all messed up, you got to see that."

Riley tried to speak, but Spike put a finger on his lips to silence him.

"It's not forever. Don't think I'm lettin' you get away from me. I just need some time to get my head around things."

He reached into the back seat, and grabbed a handful of cassette tapes that were lying around loose, and started trying to match them up to the right boxes, with an air of intense concentration.

"I was prepared to make a deal with those bastards – do anything to save myself. And … and I gave up on you Riley. Didn't think you'd come for me. I'm not worthy of you, and I want to be. Need to be, or I'll never stop these histrionics. I know it sounds like New Age bollocks, but I feel – I dunno – polluted. Need to cleanse myself or somethin', put the shine back somehow. De-tox my brain."

He tossed the cassettes behind him in frustration.

Nothing matched.

"So … I want you to go home without me. Go on back to the farm Riley. I've taken you away for long enough, and they need you there."

Riley looked out of the side window. The silence was broken only by sounds in the man's throat that Spike knew he wasn't meant to hear.

"Shit. That last bit didn't come out right at all. I need you too. Just, not for this."

He laid a hand on Riley's arm but Riley shrugged it off.

"Did I say I was givin' up smoking? 'Cos that was stupid." Spike looked in the glove compartment and found a packet with two left in it.

"Okay, let me try again." He took his first drag in over three days. It helped a little.

"I've not been myself since we've met. Been messed with good and proper – first by your lot – the Initiative. Then these other pieces of work, lockin' me up with no hope of time off for good behaviour. I've been at the end of my tether, scared out of my bloody wits more times this last year or so than in the hundred years previous. People fucking with my head, with drugs and microchips and whatall, so I hardly know who I am any more."

Riley turned back towards him, his face blotchy and confused, like a schoolboy who's just been told that the project he worked on all summer isn't up to scratch.

"Hey … hey, I told you, love. It's not your fault."

Riley sniffed. "So why am I the one gettin' punished for it?"

Spike shook his head. "No, don't do that. I'm the one who gets to sulk – it's not a good look on you. And it's not like that. It's not …"

They were both silent for a while, as Spike smoked his cigarette, deep in thought.

"I'm takin' a while to adjust, is all. Spent a century with Dru, lookin' after her more times than not. Keeping her out of trouble. And now, I'm with you – you're doin' the same for me. It's confusing. Like, being with you has made me weak."

"You're not –"

Spike held his hand up and Riley subsided reluctantly.

"I know. It's not you. It's 'cos of the chip. And that's about to change. You've wanted me to get it out all along, and I've seen sense at last. Can't go on like this. But – here's the thing."

Spike stubbed out his cigarette.

"I'm scared Riley. Angel has a soul. And it keeps his demon on a pretty tight chain. 'S why he's such a moody git. And even before he got cursed, he was a bit of a weirdo-stalker type. Used to like to mess with people's heads before he ate 'em."

Riley made a face, but didn't comment.

"But when his soul got lost for a bit – long story, won't bore you with it – when that happened, it was like the human part of him was gone completely. Real fuckin' head-case he was. Like the demon inside him was making up for lost time. Scared the willies out of me, I can tell you. I was hardly the poster-boy for sanity myself, but next to him I looked like Mr bloody Spock."

Spike took the last cigarette out of the pack, looked at it for a moment, then put it back.

"See, what worries me is that when the chip comes out – maybe I'm gonna go ape-shit like _he_ did when his soul went walkabout. Maybe the demon'll take control, because it's been locked up for so long. Humans did bad things to me the last few days, and I might lose it. Try to take it out on innocent parties. Last thing I want is to come round after the op., and do some harm to you, or fool you into thinkin' I'm okay, then hurt any of your people. Our people. I can't risk it. Can't trust myself, see? Especially with you being so soft on me. If I'm … like that, I want to know I'm with someone who'll put me in my place again. Even dust me if it looks like I'm gonna be that way for good."

Riley was still gripping the steering wheel, looking grimly straight ahead. "If Angel does anything to you, he's signed his own death warrant."

"Don't say that Riley. It won't come to that anyway – leastways I don't think it will. If it does – well, I know he won't do it lightly. Came to help get me out didn't he? Must mean something to him."

"I'm sure you do. I'm just not sure what," Riley said darkly.

Spike slapped him on the arm. "Come on, mate. It's not so bad. Won't be for long. And it'll be worth it, yeah? Knowing you don't have to worry if I'm out on my own? Just have to get through the next few weeks. After all that stuff you promised earlier, you can do that for me, can't you?"

It was a low blow, and Spike wished he could take it back.

"I guess," Riley said, with a hint of reproach. Then he smiled wearily. "Sure. I can do it – for you."

~~

Riley tried to buck himself up. But the thought of making the drive back to the farm without Spike; sleeping alone in their bed – it was unbearable. And to make matters worse, Spike persisted in trying to make him feel better.

"It's not like the telephone hasn't been invented. We can talk whenever we want. Dunno how they used to manage without that, eh?"

Riley nodded. "Sure."

He wanted to accept it, because it was what Spike wanted. But it just didn't seem fair.

"What shall I tell my parents?" he said bleakly.

It was a shallow concern, but he didn't think he could face having to explain why Spike wasn't there. Whatever he told them, it would seem like an admission of failure.

"Tell 'em I'm okay. Safe. But I've got a big project to finish, yeah?"

Riley shrugged helplessly.

"C'mon, love, help me decide what to get for this tat."

Spike opened the glove compartment again and rummaged for what he knew would still be there. He took the book out and flicked the pages until he found a drawing of the Little Prince and the fox.

"How 'bout this one?"

"'You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed'," Riley said, without looking at the text. He tried to force a smile. "Whatever you want, Spike."

In the end, Riley had one done as well. It was his way of showing that no matter how upset he might be, he had no intention of letting go. And besides, the pain took his mind off things. His design – which he had positioned inside the spike-shaped outline he'd cut the year before – was a copy of a drawing of the Prince's capricious flower.

If that didn't remind him of Spike, he didn't know what would.

~~

Big lunk was really layin' the guilt on thick. Wasn't like he _wanted_ to leave him behind; God knows he'd missed him these last few days. But it was for the best. It'd be nice to do the right thing for once.

But Riley remained despondent all that evening, though he was obviously trying to put on a brave face. It made Spike feel like shit, and when he went down on Riley for the third time, determined hands pushed him away.

"No, stop it. Please." There were tears standing in Riley's grey eyes, and his face was a twisted mask of misery. "You trying to make it worse? Make me miss you more? You can't."

Spike laid his cheek against Riley's stomach.

"Sorry. I am. It's just somethin' I have to do."

"You say so – but I don't have to like it," Riley said vehemently. "I should be with you when you go in for the operation or whatever happens. And when you come out. Couldn't do anything for you when you were at the base, and it damn near killed me to see you on the floor of that cell." Riley's voice was full of regret. "It was my fault you got that chip put in –"

"You saved, my life."

Spike moved up to lie beside Riley, and took his face in his hands, looked into his eyes and brushed tears from beneath them with his thumb. His own eyes were starting to sting.

"I know I wasn't grateful at the time, but you did what you had to – like always, love."

"Except now – when you won't let me."

Riley rubbed his eyes and forehead. "I should be there to make sure everything's done right when it gets taken out. If they leave you on the floor again –"

"Angel's got a whole hotel to play in," Spike said. "I think he might have a spare bed somewhere."

"He'd better."

Riley rolled over and thumped the mattress. "It's not fair."

"May not be fair – but it's the right thing to do, you know it is."

Riley shook his head half-heartedly, and again he said, "I only just got you back."

He sounded so plaintive that Spike didn't have the heart to reprimand him for it this time.

"You did. And you'll get me back again soon … for good this time," Spike promised. "Now turn over and let me make it up to you."

"No. Let me be, Spike. Please." Riley turned onto his side, with his back to Spike.

Spike patted him tentatively. "Whatever you say, mate."

He got out of bed and wandered over to the window. "I'll be here – if you change your mind."

He felt old, and cold, and very much alone.

After a while, he sat down in an upright chair: his jaw set; his eyes sore and tired.

~~

He'd been sitting in a daze, staring into the dark, for he didn't know how long, when warm hands were in his, coaxing him to his feet.

"Oh."

"Come to bed, Spike."

Sad, and sorry, and forgiving, Riley led him across the room towards the bed, and Spike slid under the covers and into his man's arms.

~~

Spike wanted to do this alone; Riley got that. And Spike's reasoning was sound – noble even.

But there was no way he was letting Spike go all the way to LA without him – and more importantly, _with_el. Spike wanted to be pig-headed – go off on a road-trip – fine; Riley would let him.

Didn't mean he couldn't be just as pig-headed and tag along.

He could be covert.

The thought cheered him so much that next morning he had to play it down.

"So, you're okay with this now?" Spike said, frowning.

"Sure I am. You gotta do what you gotta do."

Spike looked at him sidelong, and decided not to ask Riley when he had turned into John Wayne.

~~

Later that day, Riley went down to the underground car-park. He needed to check on the gear and move his supplies of weaponry and explosives from the SUV to the Camaro, and he also needed to talk to Angel – alone. So he called Angel, and offered him a guided tour of the vehicle he'd be taking turns driving.

As he showed Spike's sire where the jack was stored, he said, "You know Spike's goin' back with you, right?" Trying to make it sound like it had been a joint decision, he added, "You okay with that?"

"Are you?" Angel countered, looking him in the eye.

Riley looked away. "Of course."

Angel glanced around, then said quietly, "You know where we'll be. You still have my card, right?"

Riley took the Angel Investigations card out of his wallet, whereupon it promptly fell into four pieces.

"Well, I did have. Apparently I could use a fresh one."

Angel fished in a pocket and found one for him.

Riley took it. Then he put his hands in his pockets and said, "If you hurt him –"

"I won't … do anything he doesn't want or need me to do."

Riley pushed Angel up against the SUV. "You won't touch him!"

Angel faced him calmly. "You don't own him."

"I know." Riley pushed himself off and turned away.

Then Angel said casually, "I assume you're coming along?"

"Um. No!"

So much for 'covert.'

Angel quirked an eyebrow.

"Well, okay, unofficially, yes. Spike doesn't want me along but –"

"We'll stop each day at the first motel we get to around 5 am. I'll try and park where you'll see us easily. I'll call you if I get the chance, and make sure you're still with us."

"So … you want me to come …?"

This was very odd.

"Sure."

Angel was keeping his expression even more unreadable than usual, so Riley decided not to ask why.

"And you … won't tell Spike."

"Why would I do that?" Angel said reasonably. "If he says he doesn't want you along, telling him would be asking for trouble."

"Maybe that's what you want – drive a wedge between us."

Angel avoided his gaze. "That's not … what I want. Not now. You're good for him, I see that. A fresh start. It's what he needs. What he deserves."

Riley saw that Angel was sincere, and nodded abruptly, trying to hide his relief.

"So long as we're clear."

~~

When they were ready to set out – going their separate ways, or so Spike assumed – Riley was conscious of being suspiciously upbeat. He couldn't help it.

"Hey! You be good, yeah?" Spike exhorted him, clearly worried about what might have gotten into his head to lighten his mood so conspicuously. "No rollin' in the hay with that Todd feller, okay?"

Riley felt a warm glow in the pit of his stomach at the thought that Spike already regretted leaving him behind. He wanted to add his own caveat – to say, 'Same goes for you and Angel.' But Spike had had enough in the way of shackles recently, and Riley was determined not to add to them, however much it would kill him if anything happened between the two old – associates, cronies, comrades – whatever they were to each other.

So he just grinned smugly, saying, "That's just a chance you'll have to take, isn't it?"

Spike pouted and punched him on the arm, none too gently. "You do, and I'll take a chunk out of you when I get back. Todd an' all."

"Todd, schmod!" Riley responded, still grinning.

"_That's_ your answer?" Spike spluttered.

Riley spread his hands. "It's all I got."

Genevieve was peering out of the side window and sniggering at the exchange, but Angel's brow furrowed with concern when Spike mentioned taking chunks out of people, even though Riley had taken it as the joke it was.

Slapping the top of the car, Angel said, "Best get moving. Sun's down, we don't want to waste any driving time."

"Who say's you're doin' the driving?" Spike said, not without reason, given his notional half-share in the vehicle.

"You're better at navigating than I am," – was Angel's unusually diplomatic reply. "I'll take first shift until we're past the difficult parts, okay?"

He winked at Riley.

Now _that_ was disturbing.

Angel went round to the driver's side. "Come on Spike, get in."

"Give us a mo', will you, you insensitive git?"

"Oh." Angel flinched. "Right. Sure."

After Angel had got inside, Spike pressed himself against Riley, giving him a brief reminder of what he'd be missing, then pulled away and looked at the floor.

"I meant it. What I said. No strayin.' Todd. Anyone."

Riley swallowed. "Hey, Spike, I was just kidding around."

"Sure?" Spike looked down the length of the car-park, then kicked at the tyres as though checking they were pumped up enough. "Not gonna come back and find I'm not wanted no more?"

Riley took both of Spike's hands in his, linking their fingers and pushing him against the side of the car, assaulting his mouth, rolling his hips and rubbing their erections together like he wanted to take him then and there on the hood – which wasn't far from the truth.

Spike gave himself over to it for a moment, then pulled away, panting and swiping a hand across his mouth. He looked a little flustered. "Well. That answers that, I guess."

"It better!"

"Best be goin' then," Spike said, trying to regain his cool. He licked his upper lip. "I think Gen's getting hot and sticky."

Riley grimaced. "You don't have to let me in on _everything_ your vampire senses tell you, Spike."

Spike grinned ruefully. "Sorry – guess that was a bit too much info, wasn't it?"

"A little." Riley patted his flank. "Now get in the car. Sooner you go, sooner you'll be back."

"We okay?" Spike suddenly sounded painfully insecure.

Riley nodded. "We're fine."

"Tell Sarah, I'll see her soon – soon as I can, yeah?"

That was when Riley knew things really _were_ okay. Spike might lie to him, if he felt he needed to, but not to Sarah; not about that.

"I'll tell her. Be safe."

Spike got in the car, wound down the window and put his hand out. They touched fingertips; then Angel pulled away.

Riley gave them a five minute start – just long enough to phone his mom and let her know they'd be away for a while – before starting up the Camaro and setting off after them.

~~


	5. On the Road to Los Angeles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Road trip!

5: On the Road to Los Angeles

**Night 1: Thursday 25th January**

Spike had been quietly dreading having to spend so much time with Angel. They'd decided to take the longer, more southerly route to avoid any chance of being held up by bad weather and caught in daylight, so it would probably be a four-night journey.

That was longer than he'd spent with the Old Man since Angelus had been loosed on Sunnydale; it seemed like a lifetime ago, and he wasn't sure what to expect. Angel might be planning to give him a ticking-off for wantonly getting himself caught – with additional loss of Brownie Points for failing in his Quest to Find the Magic Mirror. On the other hand, the silent treatment was always a distinct possibility with Angel; that would be the worst-case scenario.

In the end, Angel seemed surprisingly mellow considering he'd been dragged all the way to Cleveland to pull Spike's arse out of the fire.

Maybe it was Genevieve's presence that kept the mood a bit lighter than it might otherwise have been. Granted, she spent at least half the time snoozing; it can't have been easy for her, getting by without feeding. But when she _was_ awake, she wasn't afraid to ask the awkward questions.

She set the tone on the first night, as they left the city limits, asking innocently, "So, Angel – have you got a sweetheart?"

Spike coughed conspicuously, and Angel whipped around and glared at her, nearly swerving out of his lane.

"Did Spike put you up to that?" Angel's features shifted slightly and his eyes were flecked with a suspicious shade of old gold.

"No need to bite my head off!" Genevieve squeaked. She flattened herself against the back of her seat.

Spike snickered, and Angel turned towards him, giving him the benefit of a flash of fang. "Well, _did_ you?" he growled.

"No!" Spike opened the glove box, noisily re-arranged the contents, and pulled out some tapes for later use. With a deep-throated chuckle, he added, "Wish I had though! Aren't you going to answer the little girl's perfectly civil question?"

"I'm not little!" Genevieve protested, scowling unconvincingly. "I'm sorry Angel, I don't mean to pry, but it's just that I wondered whether it's harder for vampires. You know, what with the heart not beating and that being the seat of the affections and all."

Spike snorted at her archaic terminology.

Angel shifted in his seat, huffing uncomfortably.

"You can get creams for that you know," Spike said, smirking.

Angel glared at him.

Genevieve broke in again, "Because, my beau was a vampire –"

_ "Beau!"_

Yet again, Spike had to pretend he was coughing.

"You should give up smoking, Spike," Angel remarked solicitously.

Spike mumbled, "Been there, done –"

"– and he turned me –" Genevieve, blithely overrode him: "– without so much as a 'by your leave'! He said afterwards that he thought it would make me stop all this 'vegetarian nonsense.' And when I wouldn't help him hunt, he dumped me. So I wondered –"

"– whether vampires can love?" Spike interrupted in his turn.

"– whether affairs of the heart are going to be more complicated now I'm a vampire," Genevieve clarified.

Spike nodded and poked Angel in the arm. "Want me to bring the bint up to speed with the sordid details and traumas of your love life, Peaches?"

"You don't know the details, Spike." Angel looked at the road ahead in determined fashion. "You didn't see everything. Didn't see anything."

"Quite pleased about that." Spike suppressed a grin. "So, how _is_ little Slutty these days?"

Expecting a back-hander, Spike ducked. When none materialised, he raised his head cautiously. Angel merely treated him to another of his patented glares – up to four on the Richter Scale, but still … Mr Self-Restraint or what?

Angel glanced over his shoulder at Genevieve, saying – not unkindly, "Yes, I do have a 'sweetheart', Genevieve. But she's human, and I'm … well, cursed … so, yes, it does get … complicated." The small muscles around Angel's eyes twitched. He stared ferociously at the road ahead. "Especially for me."

"You two still seein' each other then?" Spike frowned. "Must be a bit frustrating ain't it?"

"Like you care!" Angel snapped back at him.

"I … care …" Spike scrunched up his face, wondering whether he was lying or not. "A bit. Don't want you goin' off the deep end again, if you don't remember to pull out in time."

This time he forgot to duck. "Ow."

"Avoiding perfect happiness is a little more complicated than the rhythm method, _Spike._"

Spike subsided for a moment.

Only a moment.

"Well, tell me this, oh Great Master. How come the _fear_ of losing your soul isn't enough to stop you achieving perfect happiness? Eh? Bet you hadn't thought of that!" He folded his arms.

Angel sighed wearily. "We have. We've thought about it, okay? Believe me, Spike, there isn't any aspect of my curse, or of our whole relationship, that we haven't discussed _ad nauseam_ in every sewer under Sunnydale, not to mention some of the ones under LA."

"Oh." Now Spike was genuinely disappointed. "What's wrong with my reasoning then?"

"It might work the first time, or even the second or third. But if it did work, and I got to trusting that it would always work, then it'd stop working." Angel heaved another sigh. "'Catch 22'."

Angel looked so beaten that Spike felt a rare twinge of genuine sympathy for the Big Git. Must be going soft.

"Well, how about you just make sure the Witch is on stand-by every time you have a shag? Then if it comes out –" Spike kept his face carefully neutral: "– she can just pop it straight back in again for you."

Perhaps Angel missed the heavy-handed double entendre; either way, he just grunted ruefully. "Believe it or not, we even considered it – but it would put too much responsibility on Willow. Not to mention killing any spontaneity."

"You got a point."

Spike put his feet up on the dash, but quickly removed them when Angel's failure to complain reminded him that it was Riley's car he was disrespecting.

"Still. Shame. Never told you this but – when you weren't tryin' to kill each other? You weren't such a bad team."

Angel smiled softly. "Still are. A good team, I mean. We're still friends." He looked sharply across at Spike.

Spike just shrugged.

"We keep in touch. Buffy checks in with me at least once a week. We've helped each other out with a few things, the last few months. Not often, but now and again. More-so since her Mom's been sick.

"Joyce is unwell?" Spike felt a cold hand grip his heart.

Angel gave a brief nod.

"Right sorry to hear it."

"Yeah. They had to operate." Angel looked pained, and added quietly, "They removed a tumour ... from her brain."

"Oh, fuck. No …" Spike winced. "But she's okay, right?"

This was more in hope than expectation.

Angel shrugged. "It seems to have gone well, but Buffy's had a rough few months, what with her usual duties, and having to take more responsibility for Dawn –"

"Responsibility for dawn!" That was a bit much. "Look, mate, I know you think the sun shines out of her arse, but she doesn't literally –"

"Her _sister_, Dawn."

The universe seemed to change colour slightly, like when you take off a pair of sunglasses.

"Oh. Yeah. I'd forgotten she had a sister." Spike shook his head. "That's weird. I don't usually forget that kind of stuff."

"Anyway, since that Thanksgiving – when we were in Sunnydale, remember? –"

"How could I forget _that?_" Spike said dryly.

"Yeah, well …" Angel glanced nervously at Spike. "Some of the things you said – about connecting to people? You actually got through my thick skull. Made me realise I shouldn't shut people out so much. Even when it hurts."

Spike raised an eyebrow, but kept his mouth firmly shut for a respectable amount of time. Then he asked quietly, "Ever think about getting rid of that curse of yours?"

"Only way to do that is to lose my soul. Can't risk it – you know that."

"What about the Demon Trials?" Spike said. "Could maybe go and win it back for keeps. Then you could get your end away _and_ still stay on the side of the Angels."

"Don't tell me you believe in that fairytale!" Angel shook his head. "Demon Trials are a myth. And even if they exist, they're supposed to be in Africa."

Spike threw him a look of frank disbelief. "Bloody hell Angel, that's a parochial fucking attitude. It's only Africa. Not like it's in another bleedin' dimension."

Angel looked embarrassed; but Spike wasn't going to let him off the hook. "I thought you _loved_ the girl. She's not half bad looking, and she can kick both our arses into next week. Surely she's worth a few months below decks?"

"I don't know Spike. What if –"

"'What if?'! 'What if?' what? What if you didn't make it through? Is that what you want to know?"

"No, I –"

"Oh, I get it." Spike's voice dripped with contempt. "S'not the fear of failure stopping you is it? Not the fear of death – final death. What's holdin' _you_ back's the fear that you might succeed. Get your soul safely fitted, then it all goes pear-shaped for some other reason, like the Slayer doesn't like Barry Manilow, or chews with her mouth open, or leaves wet towels on the leather sofa. Stuff it's easier never to find out."

When Angel didn't answer, Spike shook his head. "God, Angel, for a big hero you can be a bloody coward sometimes."

They were silent for a long time after that: just driving.

At last Angel wearily admitted, "It's not that."

"What then?"

Still looking fixedly into the middle distance, Angel let it out in a rush. "What if she wants kids? I can't ever give her that."

Spike turned away, frowning. He'd wondered the same thing about Riley. Bloke had been okay about it though, and he'd half-forgotten about it – pushed it to the back of his mind, but it was still there: a vague feeling that he might never be quite good enough; that he was somehow depriving Riley of something he'd a right to expect.

"There's ways round that," he said, without much conviction. "Easier ways for you two than for me and Riley." He smirked, and added, "At least one of _you_ has somewhere for the foetus to gestate!"

Angel looked at him askance. "'Somewhere for the foetus to gestate'? You sound like Wesley. There's no need to be quite so technical with me. I do know the difference between boys and girls."

Spike shook his head sadly. "Don't tell me you've never seen 'Life of Brian', Angel? Don't you _ever_ have any fun?"

"I was gonna go," Angel said. "But there were all these Christians outside the movie theatre, with placards and bibles and … crosses. It was really off-putting. So … I went away."

Spike snorted.

"I never really understood that modern stuff anyway," Angel said.

"Oh, come on, you love the classics. 'Life of Brian' is a seminal work."

"'Don't you oppress me!'" Genevieve piped up. "'It's every vamp's right to have babies if they want them!'"

Angel looked at Genevieve in a worried manner. "I'm sorry Genevieve, but I have to warn you. Vampires _can't_ have children. It's just not possible."

Genevieve rolled her eyes, but Angel didn't even notice. There was a faraway look on his face.

Spike peered at him, then snapped his fingers under Angel's nose. "Hey! Eyes on the road, Angel. What's up?"

"I … just had the strangest picture in my head – like a memory, but it was just a photograph. It was a photo of Cordelia, and she was holding a baby."

"What's so odd about that?" Spike said. "She got something against babies?"

"Nothing odd except that – it was my baby. My son – I know it was."

"Not shagging the cheerleader now, are you?"

"No!"

Spike shook his head. He did a lot of that around Angel.

"You're losin' it mate. You worry too much. Frustration'll do that to you. Need to give yourself a break. You want Buffy? Find a way to make it work instead of puttin' obstacles in your own path. Riley and me – I thought the chances were he'd want kids, but I didn't let it stop me. Us being together? It's his choice as well as mine. Maybe you should give Buffy that much respect. She's a big girl now. You should let her decide for herself, 'stead of making the decision for her."

He lowered his voice. "Bloody control freak."

Angel just continued to stare at the road, as though looking for a sign or landmark that might give him some clue as to where he was, or where he was going.

But Spike couldn't stand the silence for long. "So, changing the subject. Did you hear anything on the Scooby hotline about the buggers who put the chip in my head?"

"The Initiative? Riley's old outfit? Buffy mentioned them a few times – they were getting in her way for quite a while. And Giles got into some kind of trouble with them. Something to do with a wizard, a letter-opener and a Fyarl demon. I didn't really understand it." Angel shook his head as if to dislodge a fly from his ear. "Guess you had to be there. But the Initiative dropped off the radar a while back. Buffy hasn't seen any commando-types for a while."

"Huh. Good riddance to 'em." Spike's mouth hardened. "Maybe the Hellmouth didn't like the competition and ate 'em up."

Angel turned to look at him earnestly. "Ever think they might have done you a favour, Spike?"

"How'd you mean, Brains Trust? How is rendering me defenceless any kind of favour?"

"Well, do you think Riley would have taken just any old vampire home to meet the parents?" Angel enquired mildly. "I mean, you're quite a catch, but –"

"Touché, mate." Spike searched his pockets for his cigarettes, then remembered he was cutting down. He tapped a beat on the glove box. "And, no, I don't. Why d'you think I wanted him to stay behind?"

Angel shrugged, apparently not that interested. "Why did you?"

"Want to be sure I'm not gonna go all 'Spikelus' on him or his folks when this chip comes out. And _you'd_ better make sure of it." He thwapped Angel on the arm. "You'll recognise the signs. Don't let me loose if I go nuts at first. Give me a chance to get used to things without the chip, okay?"

"Of course."

"And don't dust me either – not unless I'm completely bat-shit."

"Trust me."

Spike turned his head slowly towards Angel. "You know, those people who say you've got no sense of humour? They really don't know you at all, do they?"

~~

Angel was as good as his word. When they'd found a place to lie up for the daylight hours, he'd excused himself from the others and called Riley on his mobile, to check that he hadn't got lost on the way.

But Riley was already pulling into the motel parking lot, and quickly spotted his own SUV parked near the entrance.

"Angel. Hi. I'm here already. I'll park down the far end. When you leave, try to distract Spike so he doesn't look down that way, okay?"

"Sure. We'll be on the road again by 18:00. After that it'll be safe for you to follow on."

"So, he hasn't spotted me tailing you?"

"No. He's having too much fun annoying me to look out of the window."

Riley felt a stab of disappointment to hear that Spike was having 'fun' without him, but he was close enough now, to receive some of Spike's emotional output. There was nothing specific; no strong emotions at present, which he supposed was a good thing, and no indication of the 'fun' Angel mentioned; just a general air of expectancy and nervous tension.

"Okay then," Angel said, filling the silence. "I need to call my staff – bring them up to speed. I'll call you again tomorrow."

"Thanks."

After Riley ended the call, he stayed in his car – Spike's car – with the engine idling, and the heater on. He tidied up a bit, and then just sat for a while, not ready to leave this little piece of home quite yet, to check in at the anonymous motel.

At last, he called Spike's number.

"Riley, pet!"

Riley felt an immediate surge of inner warmth. "How's it going, Spike?"

"Oh, you know, pretty boring. Road, highway, cars, more road. How about you?"

Riley blanched. He'd forgotten to prepare an answer. "Oh, the usual," he fumbled. "You know how it is."

"Everyone okay at the homestead?"

"Sure." Riley squirmed. "How's Angel?"

"Oh, you know, brooding. He's snuck off on a secret errand. I reckon he's having a chinwag with Buffy, and didn't want us listenin' in."

"Okay then Spike. You sleep well."

"That it?"

Spike's disappointment washed over him, and Riley bitterly regretted having to cut the call so short, but he wasn't coping very well with deceiving his partner.

"Sorry Spike. It's just that I'm still pretty tired … um ... lots of chores to catch up on. You know how it is when you've been away."

"Not really, but I'll take your word for it." Spike sighed audibly. "Alright then. Call me when you feel better, yeah?"

"Of course Spike. Sorry I'm –"

"Nah, don't worry about it mate. I'm sure you've got enough on your plate there. You must be knackered. Talk later."

"Thanks. Sleep well, Spike. And … I miss you."

At these three simple words, Spike's spirits lifted so quickly that Riley marvelled anew at his own power.

"'S all I needed to hear, love."

~

Despite Riley's imprecation, Spike couldn't seem to get to sleep. He lay flat on his back with his hands on his stomach, watching pictures flash before his eyes. He wasn't dreaming but he wasn't quite awake either. It was a bit like tripping – visions came and went, leaving him disturbed by a weird sense of dislocation.

There was a girl with long dark hair and attitude – a bit like Al, only more grown-up. She seemed to be his partner in crime. They were breaking into a magic box they'd stolen together; inside it, Spike found a piece of glass, and the girl cut herself on it. There was blood streaming down her arms. She broke open; green light spilled out and Buffy fell into it and was consumed.

Then he was lying in an alley, and a strange dead-eyed version of Buffy was beating him senseless.

Bloody hell! Even as a zombie, the girl packed a powerful punch. And he just lay there and took it.

He wondered why he didn't even put his arms up to defend himself.

He wondered why she didn't just stake him.

In the next scene, he was in another of those dreaded white-tiled rooms. Buffy kicked him in the stomach and he flew backwards. He came down hard, shattering into a thousand pieces, and there was a sudden supernova of pain in his chest.

Fully awake now, he sat bolt upright, shaking his head to clear the fog.

He didn't know why, but he was sure he'd done something bad. So bad, Angel would have his guts for garters if he found out.

Good job it wasn't real.

~~

**Night 2: Friday 26th January**

Motel living wasn't a whole lot of fun. By the afternoon of the second day, they were rattling disconsolately around their rooms, drinking way too much coffee and getting on each other's nerves. The one thing they all agreed on was that they'd already had enough of being on the road, so they planned to set out a bit earlier than last night to see if they could cut the journey time down from four nights to three and a half.

Of course, Angel was the one who held them up, insisting on going out of earshot to make another of his mysterious phone calls, and giving Spike the opportunity to nab the driver's side.

Despite the delay, it was still light enough that most of the cars on the road were only using sidelights when they pulled onto the main highway. Spike, already bored, was tapping a beat on the steering wheel, howling the same few bars of 'Objects in the Rear-view Mirror' over and over again.

Angel was cringing, and Genevieve asked, "What _is_ that awful racket?"

"Before your time love," Spike said sympathetically, and continued with his rendition.

They'd been on the road for about ten minutes before Spike actually bothered to look in the rear-view mirror, and when he did, he let out a yelp. "Hey! That's my car!"

As though Angel couldn't have heard him in the next state, he tugged urgently on Angel's coat sleeve.

"Angel! Look behind us! About fifty yards back! Someone's nicked my bleedin' Camaro – must've nicked it off …"

Angel was looking at him as though he were retarded.

"… wait a minute …"

Angel remained silent.

_"What?" _

Spike slowed down and peered into the rear-view mirror again. Almost immediately the Camaro slowed down and dropped right back – but not quite fast enough.

"That's Riley!" Spike spluttered. "He's tailing us!"

Angel glanced at him again: that same look.

The penny dropped.

"You knew! You knew all along!"

"_I'm_ not an idiot," Angel dead-panned. "I noticed yesterday that he was tagging along."

"Bu… huh?"

"Well, work it out, Spike. He's just pulled out all the stops to extract you from a demon slavery auction, at moderate-to-high personal risk. He'd have to be crazy to go through all that and then just let you run off to California without him." Angel hunched his shoulders. "Wouldn't be much of a boyfriend for you."

"Boyfriend!" Spike objected loudly. "He's not my boyfr…"

He noticed Genevieve looking at him with raised eyebrows, and fell into an embarrassed silence for a moment.

"Little schoolgirls have boyfriends," he muttered. He'd have been blushing if it had been physically possible. "Bints in the typing pool have 'boyfriends', centenarian vampires do _not_ have 'boyfriends'." He thumped the steering wheel; as though _that_ proved anything.

"What is he then?" Genevieve enquired innocently. "Your 'lover'?"

"Your 'consort'?" Angel suggested archly.

"You know I don't go in for that crap!"

"How about your 'cutie pie'?" Genevieve put in.

"Your 'concubine'?" Angel said, not letting up. "Your 'boy toy'?"

"Oi! Pack that in!" Spike aimed feeble blows at each of them in turn and sank lower in his seat behind the wheel. This was shaping up be a very long trip if they were going to gang up on him.

"What is he then, Spike? You had your fun baiting me about Buffy. Let's put _you_ on the spot for a change. I'll bet you've got some cute little pet names for him. Don't forget, I've heard some of the things you've called Dru over the years."

"Hey! Below the belt there mate."

"What happened to you two anyway?" Angel asked conversationally. "Didn't you torture her enough to win her back?"

Spike frowned. "Hey, ladies present, Angel," he said, jerking his head towards the back seat.

"Sorry," Angel mumbled.

Genevieve had this self-effacing thing going for her. They were both guilty of ignoring her unless she was actually speaking, and sometimes they forgot she was even there. Spike liked to think that it was due to his own ability to hi-jack most of the attention that was going around.

"Anyway, if you _must_ rake over the past, Drusilla did take me back," Spike said quietly. "Then she dumped me. _Again._ Don't wanna talk about her. I'm with Riley now, for keeps. I'm done giving second chances to them as don't treat me right. Damn near wore myself out trying to please people that were never gonna think I was good enough."

As Spike said this, an image of Buffy inexplicably popped into his head.

That was bloody weird.

Not like he'd ever tried to please _her. _

"Not doin' that again," he said firmly.

Angel nodded. "Good. You shouldn't."

They drove on in silence for a while, but Spike kept slowing down, trying to catch another glimpse of Riley in the mirror. Eventually he grumbled, "He was supposed to stay home where he'd be safe."

Angel's eyebrows shot up. "Where _he'd_ be safe? I don't think you need to worry too much about _him_ being safe. Have you seen what he's packing?"

Spike turned slowly to stare at Angel, who clamped a hand on the steering wheel to keep them going in a straight line.

Genevieve collapsed in schoolgirl hysterics.

"I meant his arsenal!" Angel grouched, keeping his face expressionless.

Spike choked. "Yeah, I've seen it alright, but _you_ better not have!"

"_**Weaponry**_, Spike!" Angel shook his head as though at the foolishness of children, then went back to his previous topic like a dog to a bone. "Come on, spit it out, Spike. What are we supposed to call your Soldier Boy, if he's not your 'boyfriend'?"

Remembering that the subject of this hilarity was currently not much more than a hundred yards away, Spike was suddenly serious. Poor bugger – chasing after him over half a continent.

"Okay. You want to know what I call Riley?" He shot a warning glance to his right. "He's my soul-mate. And don't you dare laugh, Peaches. He's my partner."

He glanced in the wing-mirror to catch another glimpse of his car, though it was now too dark to make out anything of its driver. "My better half."

Spike felt a lump rising in his throat, and added regretfully, "For all the good it does him."

He tried to project some of what he was feeling in Riley's direction; to let him know that he, Spike, was thinking of him with love. When he saw the windscreen wipers swipe across the Camaro's front glass, Spike knew he'd got through.

A look of intense concentration crossed his face as he said, "Don't let me hurt him, Liam."

"You won't. I know you won't."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because I know you, Spike."

Shocked at Angel's unexpected confidence, Spike muttered, "Not what you said before." After a few minutes deep in thought, he spoke again. "Angel – why 'm I like this?" He felt like a kid asking his Dad why God didn't stop people from dying.

"Like what?"

"You know, 'like what.' Different. Not like most other vamps. Soft, sentimental fool that I am. Not saying Riley's not worth it but …"

"You're not soft. Ask the Slayers you killed whether you're soft."

"You know what I mean."

Angel looked at him with compassion. "I'm sorry Spike. I don't have all the answers. Don't have any really. But – look at Gen there." Angel indicated Genevieve who had fallen asleep again. "Who'd have believed in a vegetarian vampire? Not me. But Darla once told me that what we are as humans informs what we become afterwards. Maybe she was right."

Angel's brow furrowed with concentration, then suddenly cleared as though he'd had a revelation.

"Or maybe – maybe it's because you had love in your heart when you were turned. You were open to it. Most people are terrified when we turn them – or angry. They come out of the ground clawing and fighting the first thing they see, because that's how they died. Do you know what you did – how you reacted – when you dug yourself out of your grave?"

Spike did, but it was embarrassing. "Don't remember. I was a bit confused."

"Drusilla told us that the first thing you did was to brush the ground off your suit. Then you kissed her hand and said, 'Please excuse the state of my attire.'"

Angel turned to look at him.

Spike just kept chewing on a quick and saying nothing.

"When you think about it, I'm not exactly typical either," Angel said. "You might just as well ask why I'm such a psychotic bastard, when my soul's not there. It worries me, Spike. Was I such a bad man? I didn't think so at the time."

"Don't wanna worry you, mate, but Darla must have picked you for some reason. And for all her airs and graces, I doubt it was your perfect table manners."

Angel said nothing.

"So, what did _you_ have in your heart when you were turned?" Spike said tentatively.

"Me?" Angel's voice sounded like it was coming from a far-off place. "Hunger. Thirst. I wanted to eat the world, suck the life out of everything in it, and savour every mouthful."

"That explains a lot," Spike said. A quick glance told him that the old git was about to go into full-on Brood Mode. Better keep him talking.

"Speaking of Darla, what was it you were telling me about her? She back from the grave again or some such?"

"Yes. Wolfram &amp; Hart resurrected her – as a human."

"Blimey! What the bloody hell did they go and do that for?" Spike shook his head. "There's not an evil pie in the land those wankers don't have their fingers in, is there?"

"Not a pie in any land or any dimension. And their mission seems to be making my life even more complicated. They've been trying to get me involved with her again." Angel looked to Spike for a reaction.

"Huh! What's she think of this? Doesn't she bear you a grudge for killin' her the first time?"

"She didn't say," Angel admitted ruefully. "But I'm thinking 'yes', being as she's playing along with their pathetic little mind-games."

Spike looked piercingly at him. "But you're not falling for them are you?"

"Why would I? Darla was my sire, yes. But I've killed her once before – when Buffy was in danger. Why would I let her –"

"But she's human now. And you still feel for her. Said you'd been losin' sleep over it."

Angel looked discomfited. "I didn't think you'd remember that."

"I remember all sorts of stuff."

Angel pursed his lips. "I'd like to help her – of course I would. But even as human, she doesn't seem –"

"Very nice?" Spike suggested innocently.

"Well, I wasn't gonna say that, but … she confuses me – almost as much as you do. She has a soul now, but she's not like me. Doesn't seem to regret what we did – any of it. She wanted me to turn her. She's dying of syphilis –"

"Nice."

"– so this young hot-shot lawyer she's got followin' her round like a puppy dog –"

"Jealous?"

"No! I mean, 'no', it's long over between us. And I have Buffy – at least, I kind-of have her."

Angel looked worried. "There was this doctor who was flirting with her when he should have been helping Joyce. I was sure Buffy was on the verge of asking him out, but she hasn't mentioned him in a while." He smiled confidentially at Spike. "I think I scared him off."

"Uh-huh." Spike raised an eyebrow. "Well done Tiger. And _Darla?_"

"Oh, yeah. Darla. Well, she has this suit-guy looking for an Aurelian to turn her. But I think they'll make do with one of the company's vampire employees if he can't find one in time."

Silence.

Driving.

"So – if she gets re-vamped, as it were. You think you might have to kill her again?"

Angel didn't answer – just kept looking grimly at the white lines on the road.

~~

Riley felt a sudden pulse on the Spikedar: a feeling of love and warmth. He flushed in response and accidentally knocked the windscreen wipers on as he raised a hand to wipe sweat off his brow.

After that, he couldn't stop wondering what it meant. He couldn't believe that the sudden surge of emotion was for him; why would it be? Spike didn't even know he was there.

Spike seemed to have formed a bond with Genevieve; maybe what he'd sensed was just some kind of protective reaction towards her.

Riley hoped so.

He hoped by God it wasn't for Angel.

…

The night seemed to go on forever.

~~

Now he knew they were being followed, Spike kept catching sight of his Camaro in the mirrors; it made him grin like an idiot, knowing that Riley wasn't far away. That was why Riley had been so evasive on the phone! On both occasions when they'd spoken since Cleveland, Riley's descriptions of where he was or what he was doing had been less than convincing

Thinking about it, Spike remembered being vaguely aware that he couldn't hear any of the normal farm noises in the background, though he'd not given it much consideration at the time. It explained why Sarah apparently hadn't asked again to speak to him. He hadn't allowed himself to contemplate how hurt he'd been feeling about that until now.

It also explained how Riley seemed to have such a good handle on Spike's feelings. The ring didn't have to transmit very far – maybe just through the thickness of a motel room wall.

He should have been angry that Riley had decided to go against his wishes; ignore everything he'd said on the last day – but … no.

How could he?

It _would_ have been more sensible and safer for Riley – for both of them – if he'd gone back to the farm. But Angel – much as it galled Spike to acknowledge it – was right as well. What kind of bloke lets his partner go off with his ex-, to have a potentially sanity-threatening operation? All things considered, he should have known Riley wouldn't let himself get left behind.

And in his heart, he was glad of it.

Now the game was up, it was obvious Riley was having a hard time pretending he was down on the farm. Spike got a measure of revenge, not to mention amusement, by getting Riley to contradict himself, and catching him in elaborate lies about what he'd done that day.

"I'm dog-tired Spike. I have to get some sleep."

"But it's first thing in the morning."

"Oh, yeah – didn't sleep much though. I'm thinking I'll need an afternoon nap."

Spike felt sorry for him. "Not surprised you're tired, mate, with all the driving you've been doing."

"What driving?" Riley said guiltily.

Spike winced at his idiotic mental slip. "I meant – around the farm, or into town for supplies. You know, you're always driving –"

Quick, distract him …

"Driving me crazy with lust." Spike grinned.

"I do that?" Riley beamed down the phone line.

Spike felt the warmth and handed control of his vocal chords over to his hindbrain. "I was just thinkin' of you … in those chaps … remember what you did for me?"

He was getting hard, just remembering, and he heard a whispered, 'yes' from Riley.

"I was so bloody jealous over you and that mate of yours, my skin was almost turnin' green." Spike felt shame wash over him as he remembered his histrionics over an honest friendship. "And you were so fuckin' sweet to me that day. Didn't deserve it but you were. That beautiful arse of yours, all bare for me and biteable … makes me want to come right over –"

Careful! Getting carried away there.

"Come right back, sink my fangs and my cock into you this minute. Suck you and fuck you into next summer."

He rubbed a hand over himself through his jeans, and moaned.

An answering whimper came from Riley Finn, and Spike smiled languidly.

Still had him in the palm of his hand.

Well, he had something …

"Spike I need to –"

"I know. Me an' all," Spike breathed. "Think of me," he said, giving Riley his blessing. "And sleep tight, love."

"You too Spike," Riley said hoarsely. "I miss you."

The phone went dead before Spike had time to reply.

~~

**Meanwhile, back in LA**

Syphilis wasn't the most glamorous way to die. Darla's once-flawless skin was marred by soft, tumorous growths, and her proud carriage destroyed by the weakness in her joints. She could just about shuffle from Lindsey's bed to the bathroom when the need took her. That was something else that disgusted her. The human condition was hateful, but how much more humiliating to have a human male see her in this weakened state; to be the object of his pity.

If the doctors were right, she had about three days left to live – to suffer. It couldn't end soon enough. Lindsey had offered to find her a reliable vampire – whatever that might mean – to sire her. She'd refused. Even now – dependent as she was – she would retain at least some control over her future.

It would be an Aurelian or nothing.

But it was too late for that. Angel was nowhere in the city; she'd felt him leave, and been too ill to try to follow, even if she could have changed his mind. It was the bitter icing on the cake that Angel would let her suffer so, when it was in his power to save her. Maybe there was something of Angelus left in him after all.

Sometimes she fell into feverish dreams, where he came to offer his life for hers; to fight dragons for her; offered himself at the stake in her place. But even these dreams ended badly: her belly swelling with a parasitic life which sucked her dry, and filled her instead with a hopeless yearning, until she became a mewling caricature of herself.

She felt sickened; corrupted.

Motherhood had never been one of her ambitions. As a human, she'd used the long spoon more than once, to dig a new life out of her.

Her brief periods of wakefulness, though painful and humiliating, were a relief, at least, from these dire visions.

She lay back on her pillows, wiped the sweat from her brow, and shivered.

~~

**Night 3: Saturday 27th January**

Spike was in the driver's seat again. Truth be told, he didn't really want the job; Riley's car was a boringly smooth drive – but he felt honour-bound to compete with Angel for the wheel, even though it was more fun distracting him, than just motoring along in the dark while Genevieve snoozed and Angel worked his laborious way through a paperback that looked like it could stun an ox.

"Oh, come on. Isn't _anyone_ gonna ask me if we're there yet?" Spike groused.

Angel just peered sardonically at him over the top of his John Grisham novel, and Gen carried on snoring, louder than ever. Spike half-suspected her of faking it, and glanced at the rear-view mirror, before remembering that he wouldn't be able to see Genevieve in it, any more than she could see him.

The thought occurred to him that if the driver in front were to look into _his_ rear-view mirror, this vehicle would look like Herbie.

He communicated this revelation to his passengers.

Angel just shook his head wearily. "It's night time, Spike. They'd hardly see anything inside the car because of our headlights."

"Oh. Course. I knew that. Just trying to see whether you were payin' attention is all."

Then Spike slotted a tape into the cassette player, to make sure no one got _too_ much sleep.

~~

The journey so far had been fairly uneventful. The weather was cold, but driving conditions were tolerable; there was the occasional snow shower, but at least it didn't stick, so none of the roads were blocked.

After the first hour or so on the road, Genevieve was out like a light. It was becoming painfully obvious that the cause of her exhaustion was malnutrition, and while it wouldn't kill her, such severe deprivation so soon after being turned might affect her mental faculties. They told her so, but she wouldn't give in, refusing to share the pigs' blood they'd bought when they stopped in Louisville on the first night.

So they let her sleep; but they could both see she was getting weaker by the hour.

Every so often, Spike would glance at the back seat in a worried manner.

He wondered briefly why he cared at all; then he realised that though Riley and Angel had actually got her out, Genevieve was the first stranger whose life – un-life – he'd had a hand in saving. Ever. He wasn't sure how he was supposed to feel about that.

"You can get her some hospital stuff as soon as we get in, right?"

"Sure Spike – there's some in the fridge back home. Should still be edible … drinkable … whatever."

"Seems like a long time between meals," Spike grumbled.

"Well, it's the best we can do. I'm sorry Spike."

Spike huffed, and pulled over onto the hard shoulder. "Think you'd better drive for a bit, Peaches," he said. When they'd changed places, Spike sat hunched in the passenger seat, biting his nails and watching the road.

At around three in the morning, Spike saw a dark shape – a large animal, possibly a deer – careening off the road a hundred yards in front. A car must have just hit it.

Spike leaned over and tugged Angel's sleeve. "Pull over!"

"What?" Angel swerved and began to brake. "Why?"

"Deer!"

"Huh? You never call me –"

"'With two 'e's you pillock! Roadkill – fresh blood for Gen. Fuck! We're past it already. Go back!"

Angel shook his head, but pulled onto the hard shoulder and reversed back to where the deer lay, fatally injured, its back legs askew; blood spurting from a wound on its neck, as well as oozing from its nose and mouth.

Spike shook Genevieve awake and dragged her out of the car. "Come on my girl, you have to eat something."

She saw the deer and struggled against him. "No! No killing …"

"We didn't kill it, Gen, it's dying already. Got hit. Not by us, I swear."

"No – I can't …"

"It's dying anyway," Spike grated out. He gripped her shoulders and held her so her face was just inches away from the deer. "You'd be doin' it a favour. Putting it out of its misery."

She squirmed in his grasp. "No I can't, it's still –"

But despite her protests, the smell of fresh warm blood brought Genevieve's game-face right out for the first time since they'd met. Spike shoved her face towards the blood, still pumping from the deer's neck, and even as she tried to push herself away from it, she sank her fangs into the wound, and drank.

Before long, the deer stopped twitching and its eyes rolled back.

Evidently starving, Genevieve continued to drink for some minutes.

At last she hauled herself away, and lay on the tarmac, choking on blood and sobs.

Spike looked away, embarrassed for no reason he could think of, and Angel stood staring at Genevieve.

It started to rain.

After a few moments Spike realised that he was now getting the benefit of Angel's stare. "Bloody hell," he muttered, and went to sort things out.

He peeled Genevieve off the tarmac, bundled her into the back seat and climbed in after her. She pushed him away, and hid her bloodied and still-ridged face in her hands.

When she eventually stopped crying, Spike reached behind him to find the strategically-placed box of tissues and held some out towards her. She didn't thank him – just snatched them from him and had a go at cleaning the blood, snot and tears off her face.

He flinched away from her accusing gaze. "No need to look at me like that – I didn't do it, alright? Some wanker in front of us hit it."

She looked ready to burst into tears again.

"Don't know why I'm apologisin'," he muttered. "Hey, Forehead! My turn at the wheel!"

~~

**Day 4: Sunday 28th January**

Meanwhile, back in LA

Lorne felt awful.

Like he'd been hit on the back of the head with a baseball bat; which was in fact what had happened.

"I thought there was a spell on this place that stopped anyone doing violence," said the fellow who had found him slumped in the doorway of Caritas, as he swabbed the injury at the back of Lorne's head.

The Good Samaritan's First Aid kit lay open on the bar: a kit with some highly unusual modifications, including, luckily, green thread.

"Well, my little liquorice bootlace," Lorne said. "It's all very well having a non-violence spell on the bar, but unfortunately with that little insurance plan, cover stops the minute I step out onto the street. And I was out of gin, if you can believe that, and ten hours until Fernando comes on duty, so as you can imagine, it was an emergency. I'm just lucky you were passing by after they conked me."

"I'm glad I was able to help. I get a lot of work from your clients. Keeps the landlord off my back and then some."

"I thought you looked familiar," Lorne said, studying the man's face. "You come here often?

His benefactor frowned – probably thought he was being hit on – and said, "Could you turn round so I can see what I'm working on? And try not to move."

Lorne turned round, and sat as still as he was able. "You're pretty handy with that needle and thread."

"Thanks."

Despite his new friend's expertise, Lorne reached eagerly for his anaesthetic, complete with fruit salad and parasol. He took a sip, then added, "I've watched every episode of ER three times so believe me, I know a professional when I see one."

"Well, you're a bit easier to deal with than most of my patients," the man confided. Sometimes it's hard to tell what's an injury and what's just a normal part of their anatomy, and it's embarrassing to have to ask."

"So, what's your name, kiddo? I like to know who's done me a good turn."

"Benjamin. Benjamin Angleman."

"Mind if I save energy and just call you Ben?"

"Not at all," Benjamin replied.

Actually, he looked as though he'd much prefer _not_ to be abbreviated, but was too polite to say so.

"So – forgive me if I'm being nosey, don't expect me to change the habit of a lifetime – how'd you end up in this line of work? I mean, I've heard of demon barbers, but you don't get so many demon surgeons."

Lorne took another sip of his drink to lubricate his overactive vocal chords. Being attacked made him nervous, and the relief was making him run on a bit.

"I mean, we all need a doctor now and then, but our kind usually has to rely on herbalists and shamans. Where did you get your training? I don't suppose John Hopkins runs classes in treating … centaurs with laminitis, or, or vampires with tooth decay."

"Well, I'm not actually a dentist –"

"Never mind that. Just tell me the story of your life, pumpkin. Take my mind off the agony. What happened? You get struck off?"

"Not exactly, but I'd just as well have been." Benjamin heaved a sigh. "I _am_ a qualified surgeon. You should have seen how proud my mother was the day I graduated! If she could see me now …"

He drifted off for a moment, then he shook himself out of it.

"But I made the mistake of getting involved with a covert government operation." He twitched slightly. "I'm not supposed to talk about it, but what the hell? I don't suppose you'll squeal on me."

Lorne waved a dismissive hand. "Oh, I can keep a secret like no one you've ever met."

"Good. Well, I tell you – this scientific genius got me involved with it. She had this crazy idea – and I was all for it. We were gonna make a demon-human hybrid monster army -"

"Sounds like a hit record."

"Anyway, we were having trouble getting the parts. She wanted a Polgara, and you can't get 'em for love nor money in California –"

"Tell me about it!" Lorne rolled his eyes in sympathy.

"Then we had an escape – lost a prototype the CIA had their eye on – and another base complained about our security protocols. Called us 'time-wasters' if you please! Agent Finn's resignation was just about the last nail in the coffin. There was an internal audit, then an enquiry from higher up and guess what? The bitch who got me into it tried to hang _me_ out to dry!"

"Ouch! Calm down kiddo!" Lorne flinched as the needle dug in a bit too deep.

"Sorry." Angleman stopped work for a moment until he got himself back under control. "When the project was closed down, I was left with a big hole in my CV. I mean, demon brain-surgery is hardly something I can cite as work experience."

"You'd be surprised …" Lorne mused, rubbing his neck. "So here you are, slumming it."

"Nah, it's not so bad. There's less pressure, my clients are grateful, and at least I'm my own boss."

"Wait a minute. Did you say 'demon brain-surgery'?" Lorne picked up the phone. "I may just know someone with a job for you."

~~

The phone rang in the emptiness of the Hyperion lobby.

"Angel Investigations," Harmony piped up cheerfully. "We harm the hapless … whatever."

"Harmony, my little cotton candy! Is Angel-cakes at the homestead by any chance?"

"No, he's off on some ultra-secret mission. Wouldn't tell _me_ about it."

"How about Wesley? Cordelia?"

Harmony sighed. "Just say what you mean, Lorne. 'Is there anyone there with more brains than a budgie with percussion'?"

"That's conc– … I just meant –"

**_"Wesley!"_** Harmony bellowed up the stairs without covering the mouthpiece.

~~

Wesley came out of Angel's office. "No need to shout, Harmony," he said, rubbing his ear and taking the phone from her.

"Sorry, Boss."

"I'm not, technically-speaking, your boss, but thank you."

Wesley listened to what Lorne had to say, making some notes on the pad. When he'd put the phone down, he called over his shoulder, "Cordelia, were you aware that Angel had asked Lorne to investigate demon brain surgeons?"

"No! Do you think he's brain-sick?" Cordelia made a face and shook her head. "No, vampires don't get sick. What d'you think this is about Wesley?"

"I'm not sure. I don't think it's an immediate cause for concern, but you do know what – or rather _whom_ – the mission he's currently engaged in concerns, don't you?"

"The Bleached Moron. You think he has brain damage?" Cordelia's eyebrows took a trip northwards. "Well, _I'm_ shedding tears for him," she said with a happy smile.

"Yes, well … it seems that Angel asked Lorne for assistance on this matter some days ago," Wesley said cautiously. "But that _is_ the second possibility, yes."

"And the first is …" Cordelia thought for a moment, then her face went blank with fear.

"Exactly. It rather looks as though Angel wants to assist his … whatever Spike is to him – grandson or perhaps protégé – to remove the behaviour modification chip which prevents him from harming humans."

"Why? Why would he do that?" Cordelia gripped his arm. "Do you think Angel's evil again?"

Wesley removed her hand and brushed ineffectually at the creases on his sleeve.

"I didn't see any sign of it. He's seemed a bit distracted of late, which doesn't fit with Angelus' profile. But Angelus can be cunning, so to be honest, Cordelia, your guess is as good as mine. It _is_ rather worrying. But until we have evidence of any unfortunate … mislaying of Angel's soul, he is still our employer, and as such, is deserving of our trust and respect. So I suggest that rather than alarm ourselves, and each other unduly, we keep our respective guesses to ourselves until the two of them get back, when presumably Angel will enlighten us. Clearly Spike has still got the chip, so he, at least, won't present an immediate danger –"

_**"Spike's coming here?"**_ Cordelia and Harmony squealed in unison, but with vastly differing degrees of enthusiasm.

"Oh, sorry – Angel called to let me know a couple of days ago." Wesley looked down at some papers on the Reception Desk, then shuffled them pointlessly. "I must have forgotten to mention it."

Cordelia was almost speechless: almost.

"Forgotten to mention it?" she spluttered. "We're going to have seventy-five percent of the Scourge of Europe here in LA, and you 'forgot to mention it'? All we need now is Drusilla showing up and we'll have the full house and win ourselves a painful death."

"Please refrain from panicking, Cordelia," Wesley said with a warning glance. "This may actually be propitious. Angel is going through a turbulent time, and I think it's important that he tie up the loose ends of his past, so that he can move on. We certainly don't want to alienate him by overreacting during this crucial period."

Cordelia's face showed that she was considering a protest, but Wesley went on regardless.

"They'll probably be back sometime tonight. And they're bringing someone else Angel rescued with them – a female vampire, but apparently 'on the wagon' as it were. She even refuses to drink animal blood, so she'll need some of the hospital supply. Can you check we have plenty in please, Harmony?"

Harmony scowled and flounced off, chuntering, "How come new girl gets Five Star treatment?"

"Anyway, I don't think you should worry too much," Wesley said, doing enough worrying for the two of them. "So far as we know, Angel still has his soul, Spike is still inhibited – for now – and the last we heard, Darla was still human."

But Cordelia was already putting on her coat and checking the contents of her purse. "Well _you_ may be happy to sit around waiting to be vampire kibble, but I think I'll give it a miss this time, if it's all the same to you Wesley."

She flicked her hair. "I, for my part, have a date with David Nabbit, and I'm hoping it will turn into a very long rest-of-my-life, or at least a weekend."

"Weekend?" Wesley protested. "But today's Sunday!"

"Whatever," Cordelia replied blithely. "See you if – sorry, _when_ – I get back. I hope." She whisked out of the door leaving Wesley open-mouthed in the lobby.

~~

"Grandmama's not well. The baby's crying and keeping her asleep."

Lilah rolled her eyes as she watched Drusilla through the two-way mirror. "Is this the best you can do Lindsey?"

"She fits the profile. Look! It's definitely her." Lindsey pointed to the ancient but nevertheless pin-sharp photo showing on the screen. It hadn't been easy getting access to the Watchers' Council papers, but eventually their mole had managed to scan in the few extant daguerreotypes of the surviving members of the Order. The clarity of the photo must be down to the vampire's ability to keep totally still for an unlimited length of time.

"Look!" He pointed from the picture to the vampire behind the glass. "Same eyes, same facial features, even her hair and style of dress has hardly changed!"

"I can see it's her," Lilah conceded. "But she's hardly a model of fashion or sanity. What if _Darla_ goes crazy when Drusilla turns her? Then we'll have two demented vampires to deal with – three if you count Angel."

Drusilla's face was suddenly right close to the glass, her eyes intense and full of knives. "Daddy isn't here!"

Lilah managed to stop herself from jumping backwards in alarm, but the jerk of her head gave her away.

Lindsey smiled behind his hand and shook his head. "Nah, doesn't work like that. Siring vampires isn't like breeding dogs or horses. They don't pass down their genes." He did a double-take. "And Angel's not demented."

Lilah made no comment on Angel's mental state, but gave Lindsey a penetrating look. "Where d'you find her?"

"One of my informants heard she was heading for the Hellmouth in Sunnydale. After that, she wasn't hard to find. Just had to follow the trail of corpses."

Lilah grimaced, with totally affected squeamishness. "Why's Darla so particular about who sires her anyway? Sounds like she's one hell of a snob."

"Chrissakes, Lilah, she's dying, give her a break."

Lilah just raised an eyebrow.

"Were you born this big of a bitch or did you have to practise?"

"Ouch."

"Look, you're so against this way forward, why don't you just leave it to me. Then if I fuck it up, you can deny all knowledge. If it works, I take the credit. That fair?"

"Suits me fine." Lilah tapped a finger on her chin. "I'll have this Department in the palm of my sweaty little hand when your nice little threesome with the Brides of Dracula goes _tragically_ wrong, and they eat you."

Lindsey massaged his forehead with the tips of his fingers. "Is that all you think this is about? Sex?"

Lilah's expression gave him his answer.

"Well, that's fine with me. When the Senior Partners hear that I facilitated the Apocalypse they've been awaiting for two millennia, I'll be happy to mention exactly how supportive you were."

"Fine."

Lilah went to the door and stood poised to leave. "By the way, do you have an address I can mail your ashes to, Lindsey? Oh, no, I guess not. Your mother's trailer's probably already been repossessed, if the size of your last bonus is anything to go by." She smiled sweetly. "The firm rewards loyalty you know."

Lindsey turned away, grinding his teeth. There would be time to deal with Lilah soon enough. For now, he had a delicate matter to attend to.

~~

Darla raised her head tiredly from her pillow when she heard the door open.

"What are you doing here, Drusilla?"

She'd sensed that her crazed grandchild was near, of course, and she had so little time left that any interaction was welcome, even with Drusilla.

"I've come to make you well again Grand-mama!"

"That's kind of you, my dear, but I truly don't know whether I can be bothered."

"Why? Why? I've come all this way – I want us to go on picnics like we used to." She snatched at the air. "All the pretty ripe cherries are waiting for us to pluck them out."

"I don't know – I'm weary. Life bores me Drusilla."

She sighed.

"Skirts are raised and lengthened, hair is worn long, hair is worn short, but Angel … My Dear Boy is still gone from me, and won't come back. I've found no other like him. I had hoped … But those gypsies. I wonder how many promising young vampires' careers they've ruined."

She was dying; that entitled her to ramble in a maudlin fashion if she saw fit.

"None like mine. If only I weren't so exhausted, perhaps a search for revenge would spur me out of this despondency." She shook her head, trying to clear the sickly fog of nostalgia. "But tell me, my girl, where have you been? Where is that Idiot Boy you sired?"

Drusilla began to moan eerily, then snapped suddenly to attention. "The silver bells told me my Spike had lost his way."

"What bells? What do you mean, 'lost his way'? Why wasn't he with you?"

"He was hanging up so pretty, all in my colours – white and red, black and blue – but someone stole my White Knight. He went into the lists for the Slayer and the Shining One. The Slayer lost her soul, so Spike went and got one for her." Drusilla's hands began to tremble and she clutched at her breasts, scratching feverishly. "It hurt us!"

Drusilla fell to moaning again, until Darla roused herself sufficiently to reach up and slap her sharply on the cheek.

"Pull yourself together Girl. You're making no sense."

As though a switch had been thrown, Drusilla instantly stopped her carryings-on, and ran a hand along one of the scratches she'd made upon her décolletage, then ghosted her bloodied fingertips within a hair's breadth of Darla's lips. Darla hissed and moved instinctively towards them, but Drusilla snatched them away, brought them to her own lips and sucked the blood from them. Then she flashed a coy glance at Darla.

"Don't you want to hear the pretty story? Afterwards there are sweets for both of us."

Darla bit her lower lip. "Excuse me Drusilla. That was unpardonably rude of me. Please continue."

"I turned back, to where the Anointed One once called me, to help my Spike find his path in the woods." Drusilla's sweetly sad smile became a puzzled frown. "But he'd been a Bad Dolly. He wasn't on the shelf where I left him."

"Well, make your mind up, girl," Darla said, exasperated, but trying not to lose her temper again. "What _do_ you want? Did you want to find Spike with the Slayer and this Shining One – whatever that is – or not?"

Drusilla moaned and clutched her head.

"What's the matter now?" Darla snapped.

"I ate the Doctor, and he tasted nasty. There was sugar and spice and snails and puppy-dog tails all mixed up, and now my 'ead is so full … I want…"

She swayed like an elm, and looked into a distance only she could see.

"The time is out of joint. I just want us to be a family again. But we never … we never …"

"Well, we never will be if you don't get on with it! In the name of Heinrich, turn me Drusilla or let me die in peace!"

"Grrr! Snappy little poodle!" Drusilla grinned maniacally, clapping her hands. "Alright! I'll be your mama! Then you and my William will be brother and sister!"

Darla's expression could have dissolved gold.

"Oh, this _is_ going to be fun." She bared her neck. "Go on," she said, rolling her eyes. "In modern parlance, bite me!"

~~


	6. The Players Assemble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spike settles in at the Hyperion.

**Night 4: Sunday 28th January**

Wesley remained in the lobby, deep in thought, long after Harmony had gone up to her room.

It was a condition of her working for Angel Investigations that she live at the hotel, so that Angel could keep an eye on her diet, and she hadn’t turned down the free accommodation.

Of course, the same condition didn’t apply to Wesley.

Nevertheless, he was still at the Hyperion when they came tumbling into the lobby, giggling and pushing each other: Spike – whom he’d have recognised from Lydia’s thesis if not from Angel’s description of him – and a young woman who must be the female vampire, Genevieve, followed closely by Angel himself.

The easy camaraderie within the group caused the hairs to rise on the nape of Wesley’s neck, and his spine to stiffen more than ever, if that were possible. He noted with irritation, that despite Angel’s obvious weariness, his employer and mentor appeared mildly amused by their antics.

But it was almost as if Spike were a mind-reader; when his gaze fell on Wesley, standing like a statue in the middle of the foyer, he immediately stopped larking about, and his approach across the grand space was almost apologetic.

As though by some secret agreement between Englishmen abroad, they shook hands with what – to anyone else – would have seemed excessive formality.

“Wesley Wyndam-Pryce.”

The interloper nodded his acknowledgement. “Spike,” he said, looking – albeit fleetingly – a little embarrassed by the brevity of his own moniker.

“Yes, I know,” Wesley replied in guarded tones. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Spike.”

“Oh. All good I suppose?” Spike said, evidently without much hope, judging by the immediate slump of his shoulders.

“Very droll.” Wesley permitted himself a wry smile. “My father crossed swords with you once – literally.”

Spike looked genuinely worried. “Kill him, did I?”

“No,” Wesley said, with a hint of regret he couldn’t hide. “He survived.”

Spike puffed out a breath. “Good for him.”

“He told me a lot about your history actually,” Wesley said urbanely. “You did quite a sterling job, planting the flag for English vampirism abroad. A Chinese slayer here, an SS unit there …”

Wesley smiled inwardly when he saw Spike’s brow crease with the effort of working out how he was supposed to react to these unkind conversational gambits.

“Yeah, well … tried to do my bit for Queen and country … in my way …”

But Wesley was beginning to enjoy his vampiric fellow-countryman’s discomfiture far too much to allow himself the luxury of prolonging it.

“No. Anything good I’ve heard comes from Angel,” he said casually, without even the hint of a smile.

Spike did a double–take. “Oh. Well if Angel’s done a PR job on me, I’d better go then.” He turned as if to leave, but walked straight into his sire, who firmly turned him back round again.

“Unless there’s any chance of a cuppa?” Spike added hopefully.

“Oh. Of course. Forgive my rudeness.”

Obscurely embarrassed at having apologised to this young – or, to be more accurate, old – whippersnapper, Wesley nevertheless went immediately into the back office and put the kettle on. As he went to get a pack of human blood from the fridge for Genevieve, he called out to Spike, “Milk and sugar?”

“Please!” came the unexpected reply.

Making tea for a vampire.

Could his life get any more odd?

Wesley wondered what his father would say if he knew.

~~

At the sight of the tea tray, Spike relaxed back in his seat, instantly at ease, but thanks to Genevieve, this blessed state of affairs didn’t last long.

“Oh! A real teapot! Pretty cups! Silver spoons! Sugar tongs!” she gushed. “We only ever drank out of mugs at home. May I pour it?”

Spike and Wesley instinctively exchanged worried glances, then both quickly looked away.

“Of course you may,” Wesley said smoothly, placing the tray on the table in front of Genevieve.

Her hand immediately shot out to grasp the teapot; Spike yelped a panicked – “No!” and Wesley swung rapidly into action to avert the impending disaster, grabbing Genevieve’s wrist before she could do anything they might all regret.

“It has to brew for a few minutes first,” Wesley said to Genevieve, with an obvious attempt to remain calm, and not scare the foolish Colonial.

Spike nodded approval.

“Sorry.” Genevieve looked perplexed. She waited a moment before tentatively asking, “Now?”

_“No!”_ Both Englishmen spoke as one.

“Gotta give it at _least_ three minutes to infuse,” Spike said sternly.

Genevieve glanced at Angel, raising her eyebrows slightly, but he merely shrugged.

“No point lookin’ at the bog-trotter,” Spike reprimanded her. “We’re brewing tea here, not potcheen.”

“I know how to make tea,” Angel protested.

At that, Wesley laughed quite loudly, evidently thinking Angel had made a joke, but Angel looked decidedly put out, and Wesley quickly stifled his hilarity.

An embarrassed silence followed, broken only by the sound of Genevieve arranging the cups closer together, and asking time and again whether the tea was ‘cooked’ yet. When she was finally told that the time was nearly up, she picked up the teapot in readiness, holding the spout over the first cup.

_**“Milk first!”**_ Spike and Wesley both cried out in genuine distress.

There was no getting around it this time.

Spike looked ruefully at Wesley.

“This makes us tea geeks, doesn’t it?”

“I’m rather afraid it does,” Wesley mournfully agreed. “And I see that you are with me, in differing from Orwell on the order of pouring.”

Spike shook his head in derision. “Old George had a few good ideas – some of them even about tea – but when I read that letter of his in the Standard? Well, I nearly went straight round to his gaffe and put him out of his misery. Put the tea in first, my arse!”

Spike slammed a fist on the table, making the cups rattle.

“You scald the milk when you pour it into the hot tea – no two ways about it. That mealy-mouthed argument that ‘you might put too much milk if you put it in first’ is just utilitarian nonsense. And as for the ‘no sugar’ rule, well, that was just to try and get people to save their rations –”

“Have we met?” Angel cut into Spike’s rant. “You look like Spike but you sound like someone with more brain cells in his head than he knows what to do with.”

A slightly aggrieved look flitted across Spike’s face, but he decided not to retaliate. Maybe Angel didn’t want him getting too friendly with his staff. It might weaken the command structure or some such bollocks.

After another awkward silence, Wesley said briskly, “I think you might as well pour _the milk_ now, Genevieve.”

She nearly knocked the jug over in her excitement.

A minute or two later, with a nice cup of tea finally in his hands, Spike was feeling almost human again, in a manner of speaking. He settled back to take a sip.

“What’s that for? To hang my hat and coat on?” Genevieve demanded.

“What?” Spike frowned at her.

“That!” She pointed to his little finger, which he was holding out at an absurd angle to the cup.

He quickly pulled it in, gripping the cup with both hands and taking a huge, un-gentlemanly gulp of tea. “Cheeky wench,” he grumbled. “Next time we’re in locked up in a dungeon together, I’ll tell the cavalry to leave _you_ behind.”

He flashed her a grin, and reached for a refill.

~~

Following this tentative bonding over the tea ceremony, Wesley showed Spike and Genevieve to the rooms he had prepared for them, then left them to freshen up.

He returned to where Angel was still standing in the lobby. “Congratulations on your success Angel. You seem to have bested Wolfram &amp; Hart yet again.” _‘Without my assistance,’_ he thought. “It’s getting to be a bit of a habit.”

“Yes – but I’m sure I won’t have heard the last of it,” Angel said.

“You’ve gone to a lot of trouble for this soulless progeny of yours, Angel.”

Angel twitched slightly. “’I prefer ‘unsouled’ if you don’t mind Wes. ‘Soulless’ sounds too –”

“Soulless?” Wesley suggested mildly. “Well, whatever you call it, I hope you don’t live to regret it – so to speak. Oh, and by the way, Lorne got in touch. He asked me to inform you that he has found a demon brain surgeon for you.”

Wesley tried to make it sound like a throwaway remark, but the note of accusation hadn’t escaped his employer.

“Okay Wes,” Angel said coldly. “Spit it out. You’re worried about what will happen if I help Spike get that device removed from his head.”

Wesley coughed, and looked at his hands. “Well, _if_ that is your intention, yes, I _am_ rather concerned, and not just for my own safety.” He took courage and looked earnestly at Angel. “Have you really thought through all the implications? This is William the Bloody we’re talking about. I know he seems charming enough –”

“He does?” Angel’s nose wrinkled.

“But if they take out this restraining device … After all, Penn was your get and you had to –”

“You think I’ve forgotten?” Angel said flatly.

Despite the tight control the vampire maintained over his facial expressions, Wesley had learned to read Angel’s moods quite well by now, and this one was perilously close to ‘pissed off’; but he had to take the risk and push a little harder. He clenched a fist behind his back to steel himself.

“No, I don’t think you’ve forgotten. But as a former Watcher, you must understand that I’m very curious to know what makes Spike any different.”

“He’s completely different Wesley.” Angel re-shuffled the files that Wesley still hadn’t put away.

As though he actually had the faintest idea what was in them, Wesley thought to himself.

“Penn took to killing like he was born to it. Spike never really – well, okay, he sometimes enjoyed it, but at least he had … other interests. Mostly? It was just incidental, or a challenge, or he’d do it to please Drusilla ...”

Angel stopped messing with his props and placed his hands firmly on the desk, looking at Wesley with an expression of regret. “Or to please me.”

His next words spilled out in a rush: “I think he can be rehabilitated.”

“Hey! I’m not gonna pick up litter or dig old biddies’ gardens for ’em!” Spike said as he jinked down the stairs.

Wesley was disconcerted at having been caught discussing Spike behind his back, but perhaps it would be best to get it out in the open.

“You may joke about it all you wish, but really, Spike, I don’t know what you and Angel can be thinking of.” He blessed Spike with a look of genuine concern.

“Don’t you realise that when this chip of yours is removed, it’s possible that Angel will have to dispatch you?”

Spike hopped up to sit on the reception desk next to where Angel was standing. “Look, I know this must sound crazy to you Watcher-types, but not all vampires are obsessed with killin’ everyone in sight and bringing about the End of the World. You’ve just … met the wrong ones.”

He waved a hand to indicate that Angel was included among them.

Pretending not to have seen Wesley’s dubious look, Spike went on, “I’m not sayin’ it’s just a few bad apples spoilin’ the barrel, but still … your average vamp – not that I’m one of them – he’s just tryin’ to get by. Never thinks about the prey that much, no more than you do about eating a steak.”

“I hardly think –”

“Not that I’m surprised. You’re in the business of protecting people from demons, so naturally you only notice the ones that pose the biggest threat. And I know I’ve got a bit of a reputation for mayhem. Can’t hide it from you, of all people. But that’s in the past. I’ve sworn off killing just for snacks. So I shouldn’t have anything to worry about as long as I keep my nose clean, should I?”

“_‘Keep your nose clean’?_” Wesley couldn’t help thinking Spike was underestimating the challenge he was about to put himself through. “You seem very confident of your ability to control the natural urges of your demon. A little over-confident, if I might venture to say so.”

Spike leaned so far forward he almost tipped himself off his perch. He stabbed a finger towards Wesley and fixed him with a determined stare.

“You’re wrong. I _know_ it’s gonna be hard – especially at first. I’ve taken what I wanted, when I wanted it, since long before you were hatched. And the demon’s been muzzled – caged-up – for over a year now. But _I’m_ the master of this house.” Spike pistolled a finger at the side of his head.

“Me. Not the chip and not the demon. Before I leave this place again, I’m gonna be in control for keeps. Peaches here’s gonna help me make sure of that. ’S why I left my partner behind – well, tried to anyway.” Spike glared at Angel.

“Oh. Of course,” Wesley said. “I’ve read quite a lot about Drusilla … is she –?”

“Dru’s out of the picture. I’m with someone new. That’s why I’ve decided to change – not because of the chip. It’s why I have to be sure.” Spike set his jaw as if expecting further opposition. “He’s human.”

“It’s a … He’s … Oh! Angel never mentioned …”

Surprise, pain and hope – Wesley feared all three had been plain for all to see, fleeting across his face before he managed to mask his expression. He looked away from Spike’s penetrating scrutiny, glanced at Angel, then looked at the floor. ‘Embarrassed’ seemed to be his natural resting state these days, though he believed and sincerely hoped that Angel hadn’t the slightest idea of how he felt.

Indeed, Angel seemed perfectly oblivious. “Are you going to leave Riley outside all night?” he demanded of Spike.

“Weren’t you listening to anything I just said?” Spike shook his head, exasperated. “You bet I’m leaving him outside. Didn’t ask him to come along. I told him to stay well clear. Don’t want him near this – near me – not until it’s all sorted. Anyway, he doesn’t even know _I_ know he’s here, so it’ll look a bit off if I invite him in now, won’t it?” Spike searched his pockets but didn’t find whatever he was looking for. “He’s a big boy, he’ll be okay.”

Wanting rather badly now to get away, Wesley looked at his watch. “Good lord, is that the time? I really should say goodnight and be getting along. Thank you for giving me the benefit of your opinions, Spike.”

“Yeah, well.” Spike scratched his head. “Anything I can do to disrupt the Watcher’s Council’s cosy little paradigm.”

“Indeed. And I wish you the best of luck. I shall be most intrigued to discuss this further at a later date, and to monitor your progress, if you don’t mind.”

Spike nodded briefly and Wesley headed for the doors.

“Um, Wesley?” Angel looked uncomfortable. “I think it’s actually best if you take a vacation – just till this is over. On full pay, naturally.”

Wesley swallowed the pathetic-sounding ‘why?’ which rose in his throat. As he looked from Angel to Spike, and back again it suddenly felt as though he were watching them from a thousand miles away.

“I quite understand,” he said, taking refuge in courtesy’s cold embrace. “Perhaps it is for the best. Cordelia has already absented herself.” Wesley straightened his tie and pulled down the sleeves of his jacket with precise movements. “I was going to suggest I do the same thing myself, anyway.”

The blatant lie, coming so soon after what he’d just said to Spike, was invested with so little enthusiasm as to be almost inaudible. He smiled wanly. “Well, I think I’ll turn in for the night. Let me know when you need – when you would like me to come back to work, Angel.”

Before he left, Wesley offered Spike his hand for the second time. “Best of British.”

Spike shook it solemnly. “Thanks.”

~~

As he left the building, Wesley caught sight of a tall, broad figure lurking in the shadows. He wondered whether this might be Spike’s paramour; he was intrigued to learn what kind of man would be partner to such a notorious vampire.

A little ashamed of his curiosity, he excused himself on the grounds that it might otherwise be someone who posed a threat to the occupants of the Hyperion; an agent of Wolfram &amp; Hart for example. The man was certainly scanning the hotel with a passionate intensity that the architecture – exemplary though it was – hardly warranted.

So Wesley deliberately took the long way home in order to pass near the stranger, and to his surprise, the man approached him and said tentatively – as though not wanting to alarm him – “Excuse me, but do you live around here?”

“Yes, indeed. Can I be of assistance?”

“I was wondering if you knew of any hotels not too far away – ones that are open for business, that is.”

Wesley took out a notepad and pen, jotted the names and locations of some reputable establishments nearby and handed him the sheet of paper.

The man struck him as honest and decent, but in need of a wash and brush-up and a good night’s sleep, and as their eyes met, Wesley felt an unaccountable kinship with the fellow. “Best of luck,” he said.

“Thanks.”

The man didn’t ask why Wesley thought he needed it; just turned back to his vigil over the Hyperion.

~~

Spike let the curtain fall closed and leaned his forehead against the wall. Riley Finn was out there – he was sure of it. But he hadn’t been able to spot him. He felt a surge of pride; Riley was quite something for a mere human. As a vampire he’d be formidable. But now wasn’t the time to be thinking about that. Maybe it never would be.

As he turned away from the window, Spike felt the vibrations of Angel’s careful fairy-footsteps approaching his room. His sire pushed the door open and leaned against the doorframe.

“So … did you believe that line you fed Wesley – about vampires ‘just trying to get by’?”

Spike turned back to the window and peered through the crack in the curtains again. “Yeah, why not? I thought we’d already established that you and I are two special breeds of lunatic.”

“Wolfram &amp; Hart certainly think I’m special,” Angel said grimly.

A wave of disappointment washed over Spike. “Uh-huh.” He sniffed theatrically. “So. Coming to my rescue like that – it was all just part of your little vendetta against them. Nothing to do with me at all.” He pulled his coat around him a little tighter. “It’s always all about you, isn’t it?”

“If you had any idea how much I wish it wasn’t.”

Spike felt Angel take a step closer to him. Then a hand brushed his shoulder. Spike twitched it away like an annoying insect.

“And you know that’s not … not how it was,” Angel said.

“Huh.” Spike was unconvinced.

Angel ploughed on regardless. “I came to tell you, I’ve just spoken to a doctor – a real doctor – who’s competent and willing to perform the operation. To remove your chip.”

“You have?” It came out louder than Spike had intended.

“He’ll be here tomorrow evening.”

Spike felt like he needed to breathe. After what seemed like a lifetime at the mercy of the piece of silicon in his head, things suddenly seemed to be progressing with startling speed. He wasn’t sure if what he was feeling was excitement or fear.

“Already.” Spike focussed his attention on the street below, while he collected himself. “You move pretty fast for such a great lumbering oaf-like thing.”

“You’re welcome,” Angel said dryly.

They both stood in silence for a few moments.

“Angel – I wanna say something. It’s gonna sound pathetic but … I heard what you said to your sidekick earlier. So – thanks. For believing I can do this – believin’ in me, or saying you do anyway.”

“I do,” Angel whispered.

Without looking around, Spike knew that Angel was right behind him now: so close he could almost feel the weight of Angel’s shadow falling upon him.

He didn’t move a muscle.

He felt a hand on his arm, and allowed Angel to turn him around.

When Spike looked up at his sire, what he saw made his heart hurt. These last few days had been the longest they’d spent together since Sunnydale, and even then, Angel hadn’t been in his right mind.

Now he was, and he wanted Spike; wanted him badly. But not like before. Then, he’d just been a thing to play with and push around: a sometimes prized, sometimes despised possession. But Angel could see him now, and seeing him, wanted him again; wanted him more.

Shocked and conflicted, Spike lowered his eyes and laid a palm against Angel’s chest.

~~

For Riley Finn, being with Spike had sharpened everything: his reactions, his emotions, his perception of the surroundings: even more so since he’d had the ring. There were colours and shades he’d never even seen before, but now he was feeling them in his guts – smelling them.

What he saw at the lighted window threatened to burst his lungs; send his heart into an arrest. The outline of the silhouette in one of the upper floor windows – the silhouette he knew was Spike’s – changed, as something else – someone else – came between Spike and the light source. It could only be Angel. Angel was standing behind Spike, and they were close together: very close.

Riley felt his insides liquefy. It was all he could do not to go crashing into the hotel to find them and fling them apart; tear them apart. And the ring was no help at all; Spike was a chaotic mess of emotions: elation, pity, confusion, anticipation, sadness, fear, love.

Riley was ashamed. Spike didn’t know he was only yards away, so it was almost like he had Spike bugged – for all the good it was doing him. Angry at himself; at Angel; at Spike for giving him this infernal device, and at whoever had made it, he tore the gold band off his finger, and pounded his fist into his palm, but that wasn’t enough so he did it to the wall too, letting out a grunt, though not of physical pain.

He sucked the blood off his wounded knuckles – wishing by God that Spike was down here doing it for him; holding his damaged hand to those sweet sinful lips ...

Sinful?

No.

He should trust Spike.

He wanted to trust him. But now he couldn’t bring himself to look back at the window, in case of what he might see; couldn’t put the ring back on, for fear of what it might reveal.

With his fists clenched at his sides, Riley stood in a haze of indecision, until it occurred to him that without the ring on his finger, he wouldn’t know if Spike were in trouble. Angel might be hurting or coercing him. Awash with sudden panic, he jammed the ring back on, splitting the nail, nearly ripping flesh in his haste.

Spike was okay.

Riley sagged against the wall he’d recently assaulted.

Spike was okay, that was what mattered.

And the confusion had cleared.

Riley chanced a look back at the window.

At first, Spike’s shape was still wholly consumed by the bulkier darkness that was Angel, but as he watched, the two patches of shadow began to separate, linked by a narrow isthmus, which then retracted, leaving them standing apart once again; the storm clouds parting to let the sun give him its blessing.

He sank to his haunches, exhausted, and closed his eyes.

~~

Slowly, Spike used the hand resting on Angel’s chest to push himself away.

“Sorry, mate … can’t.”

Angel’s jaw twitched. He closed his eyes.

This was confusing. Angel was being … well, whatever he was being, Spike wasn’t used to Angel being it. The idea that anything he, Spike – of all people – did or said could really upset Angel, or hurt him was … well, it made the earth spin off its axis.

Things must be falling apart.

“Don’t do this to me Liam,” he said in a low voice. “Don’t do it to yourself.”

Angel seemed to shrink a little. “Missed my chance, I guess.”

“Missed it … a long time ago, you knew that.” He patted Angel on the arm. “’Sides – I’m scared of what your Watcher Boy might do to me if we get too close.”

“What?” Angel’s faced showed blank incomprehension.

Spike couldn’t believe that Angel didn’t know; hadn’t seen it, scented it. Still, the Old Man always had been selectively blind. Wesley might not thank him for trumpeting his crush from the rooftops. If Angel hadn’t grokked what was clear to anyone who was looking, Spike wasn’t going to be the one to put the Watcher under the magnifying glass to fry.

“Well, he clearly thinks I’m not to be trusted,” Spike covered smoothly. “And what about Buffy? Don’t want _her_ chasing after me in a jealous snit. That bird of yours can be right testy sometimes.”

Angel shook himself. “Buffy. Of course. That’s weird. I thought we – Buffy and I …”

“Try bein’ more cryptic, why don’t you?”

“Sorry. But I had it in my head that we weren’t together, or even on speaking terms. Like we’d had a really bad fight over something. I must have dreamed it … I don’t know what came over me.” Angel looked pained. “It’s not like I want Riley pounding in here to set me on fire either.”

Fuck!

Riley was outside!

Poor bloke must be doing his nut.

Spike’s guts curdled at the thought of what he’d just put his partner through – what Riley must have made of the signals he’d been giving out over the last few minutes.

Still; wasn’t like he’d caved, was it?

He’d passed the test: maybe not with flying colours, but he’d passed.

Spike took a last look out of the window and pressed his left hand to the pane, thinking, ‘Still with you, love.’

Then he realised what an idiot he was being, and reached into his coat pocket for his phone. He threw an embarrassed glance Angel’s way.

“Angel – thanks –” he said abruptly. “For everything. But it’s past my bed-time, so, um … push off, okay?”

“Sorry.” Angel ducked his head and backed out of the room. “Sleep well, Will,” he said softly.

Then he was gone.

Spike speed-dialled Riley’s number.

Yeah, modern technology had its uses alright.

 

**Day 5: Monday 29th January.**

When Wesley returned the next morning to collect a volume he needed for some private research, he was surprised to find the man he’d spoken to last night exactly where he’d left him.

He looked cold, and very tired.

Feeling unusually bold, Wesley went up to him. He sincerely hoped his guess was correct, because otherwise what he was about to say would sound like some absurd euphemism, for God-only-knew-what.

“Excuse me, but are you by any chance … a friend of Spike’s?”

For a moment the fellow looked startled, but then he seemed to sag with relief at just having someone to talk to, who knew Spike’s name.

“Is he okay?”

“He was fine last night. I work at the Hyperion with – _for_ – Angel, and I have to go in, briefly. Do you have any message for Spike?”

“No. He doesn’t know I’m here.”

Wesley tried not to let his expression give Spike away. “I understood he might be here for some time. Angel has only just made contact with …” Perhaps the matter of the chip was confidential? “With the person Spike’s here to see. I hope for your sake that you’re not intending to wait outside the Hyperion until he comes out.”

“Dunno. I guess not – but I … don’t want to leave …”

“I doubt you’ll see anything of him today,” Wesley said cautiously. “It was rather a late night, and I imagine if he’s anything like Angel – in his habits I mean – he’ll probably be sleeping, at least until midday. Why don’t you –”

“I guess I’ll find one of those hotels later.” The man dug his hands into the pockets of his parka. “It’s just – I feel more connected. You know that old song, ‘The Street Where You Live’? I just wanna be close by … in case he needs anything.”

“The hotel is well supplied with anything he might need, materially,” Wesley assured him. “But I’d be happy to make discreet inquiries with regard to his well-being for you, if he is awake.”

“Oh, would you do that for me?”

“Of course.”

Later, Wesley wondered what had caused the rush of blood to the head that made him continue, “Then assuming all is well, you can use my flat as your temporary base if you’d like. It would save your pocket, and the sofa is quite comfortable. I’ve often fallen asleep on it myself.”

“I don’t want to impose –”

“You wouldn’t be,” Wesley pressed him with uncharacteristic insistence. “Frankly, though I was due some time off, I’m already finding it terribly dull. The company would not be unwelcome.”

For a dreadful moment, Wesley feared that Spike’s friend was about to hug him. But he didn’t. The man just seemed to collapse a little more.

“Thanks. That would be just great. My name’s Riley, Riley Finn. And thank you again.”

“Wesley Wyndam-Pryce,” Wesley introduced himself, rather wishing his name wasn’t such a mouthful. “‘Wes’ will do.”

“Okay, Wes. Do you think Spike would spot me if I went to my car – the one they arrived in – and got my sleeping bag from one of the packs?”

“I think it unlikely to cause any trouble,” Wesley told him truthfully. “I’ll show you where it’s parked.”

~~

Wesley opened the door to his apartment as tentatively as if it wasn’t actually his own residence. In truth, he was hoping that he hadn’t left anything too egregious lying about the place. He didn’t think he had, but as a bachelor who received very few visitors, almost anything was possible. He peered inside. It was untidy but not too unhygienic, so he opened the door wider and let them both in.

“Nice place you’ve got here,” Riley said.

Wesley wasn’t reassured – that was just something people said, wasn’t it?

“I’m afraid I haven’t had time to clean.” He regarded the stained, half-empty mugs, and the sticky rings on the coffee table with chagrin. His sofa, whose services he had blithely offered as a bed, looked like an explosion in a second-hand bookshop.

“You’ve made it your own,” Riley said with considerable diplomacy.

“Can I get you some tea?” Tea made all things better.

“Please,” Riley said eagerly.

“I have Earl Grey, Darjeeling, Assam …”

Riley looked perplexed.

“Or perhaps you’d like something stronger?”

“I know it’s early, but I could use a beer,” Riley said.

Wesley’s heart sank. “I have sherry,” he admitted reluctantly. Then he brightened. “Or Scotch?” Scotch was a real man’s drink, after all.

“God, yes please – just as it comes.”

Wesley poured a generous measure, and Riley knocked it back in one, and looked like he’d needed it.

“Tea would be good too – whatever you’re having.” He followed Wesley into the kitchen. “So – you work for Angel. What do you do?”

Wesley toyed briefly with saying ‘Rogue Demon Hunter’ but settled for: “I do research for him,” adding apologetically, “Hence the state of your bed.”

“It looks very scholarly,” Riley said.

“I sometimes go with him on fieldwork too – dealing with various threats to the public from the demon population.”

That came out rather more self-important than Wesley had intended. He adjusted his spectacles, adding, “I’m not terribly good with weapons to be honest. In fact I sometimes suspect that Angel just keeps me on out of sympathy.”

“I’m sure that’s not true!” Riley reassured him, with rather more conviction than Wesley felt their short acquaintance could justify. But perhaps an uninformed vote of confidence was better than none at all.

“Well, I’m sure you’re tired. There should be plenty of hot water, so if you’d like to have a soak you’re welcome to do so while I clear up in here.” Wesley indicated the sofa and its surrounding debris.

“You don’t have to go to any trouble.”

“No, I ought to sort this lot out.” Wesley began collecting his volumes together. “Can hardly see the apocalypse for the trees.”

~~

After Riley had taken a shower, he wriggled into his sleeping bag and soon fell into a deep sleep. It looked as though there were an enormous larva on Wesley’s sofa. Riley was so still and so quiet that Wesley let the simile get out of hand, imagining that his house guest might remain there, immobile, for months, only emerging from his chrysalis when some bizarre transformation was complete. Stranger things had happened.

Having given his library a stern sorting out, Wesley spent the day reading up on predictions for the year 2000. Some might have thought his interest a little tardy, but then, calendars, like anything else, were often relative.

~~

When Riley awoke, he thanked Wesley once again, and then ventured out for supplies, and on his return, he cooked enough for the two of them – perhaps as payment for his billet. They both ate heartily, then Riley went to stand watch at the hotel once more.

This set the pattern for the next few days.

Riley was disappointingly undemanding company – out for most of the night and sleeping for most of the daylight hours. Wesley hadn’t eaten so well in years, but they shared their meals in relative silence, having little in common other than their isolation; and for Riley, that situation was only temporary.

Wesley tried a few times to broach the subject of Riley’s relationship with the vampire. He was painfully curious, but utterly incapable of asking a straight question about it. He couched his enquiries in terms of theoretical scenarios, and to his frustration, Riley never seemed to understand the subtext, so Wesley was left floundering and apologising, while Riley looked at him in puzzlement.

Sometimes it was as though they spoke different languages, which in a way, Wesley supposed they did. It never occurred to him simply to start with, ‘By the way, how did you and Spike meet?’

So he cursed himself for being British, and buckled down and did his research, like a good Watcher.

Ex-Watcher.

~~

Karma was a load of bollocks; life just had it in for him. It wasn’t right, this kind of thing happening to a bloke first thing in the … afternoon. Wasn’t like he was up to anything nefarious. You come downstairs on an innocent mission to see if there’s any fresh blood in the fridge, and ...

“Harm!”

Spike greeted the object with which he’d collided in a tone approaching panic. He gave himself a mental slap for forgetting that his rebound girl might be haunting Angel’s hallowed halls. “Good to see you,” he lied blatantly,

“Spike,” she replied coolly. “I wish I could say the same.”

“Er. Did I do something wrong?”

“Don’t play the innocent carp with me Spike! You staked me! Hello!”

“Oh, yeah. I did do that.”

Spike tried to push past Harmony without meeting her eyes, but she planted herself firmly in the doorway, with her hands on her hips. “Don’t you know how rude it is to stake a fellow Creature of the Night?”

Okay, so he’d staked her. What was even more mind-boggling was that he’d slept with her. He tried to remember what had been going through his head at the time: something alcohol-based, that was a certainty.

“Yeah. Sorry, okay?”

Was he sorry?

He thought he might be.

Harmony fussed with her hair as she went on, “But I’m big enough of a person to let bygones be bygones. The books say that holding a grudge hurts me more than it hurts you, so I’m –”

She made a whooshing motion with her upper body which Spike watched, perplexed and horribly fascinated.

“– letting it go! See!”

She flounced away.

Then flounced back.

“Oh and Wesley was asking how you were.” She screwed up her forehead. “I bet he never asks about me! No one ever does. I sit here every day, working my fingers to the cuticles –”

Spike glanced pointedly at her perfect manicure.

“It’s a figure of eight, dumb-ass!” she said.

Spike looked enquiringly at Angel who had just come down on a similar mission to his own. “And you pay her for …?”

Angel shrugged. “Not eating people.” He tapped Spike on the back of the head as he slid past.

Spike rubbed his head and scowled at Angel’s back, then looked quizzically at Harmony. “On the wagon, are you?”

She nodded.

This not-eating-people thing seemed to be turning into a bit of a trend.

“How’d that happen then?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I was never totally committed to the whole ‘evil’ thing, you know? I mean, I was helping to _stop_ an Apocalypse when I got bitten. And it’s a blast being back with Cordy – one of the old gang …”

She frowned distractedly.

“Wait a minute. I had this awful dream last night – I’d tried to sell Cordelia to some blue nuns, and she shot me with a crossbow …”

She tailed off as her attention wandered to Spike’s left arm. She stared fixedly at it for a moment, with her head on one side, then grasped him by the wrist, pulling him in to get a closer look at his tattoo. She ran a curious finger over it.

“Hey. Get off,” Spike muttered. He batted at her and tried to pull away, but she clung on like a well-coiffed terrier.

“Oh, Blondie Bear! You did love me! You got this for me!”

“For you? No I didn’t, you daft bint,” he snapped, still trying to shake her off. “What in blazes gives you that idea?”

“It’s a picture from that book!”

“I know where it’s from – I chose it! What’s it got to do with you?”

Harmony looked as if she were about to burst into tears. “I _gave_ you that book!”

“You …” Spike stopped to think. “Oh, yeah. Right. So you did.”

Now she really was crying.

Bugger.

He hated to see women cry, even pneumatic ones. He dabbed clumsily at her cheek with a ratty bit of tissue that had seen god-knows-what earlier service.

“Sorry, Harm, but … it’s not for you. ’S for my partner.”

Her tears must have infected him with a mystical soppiness virus, because he was suddenly missing the aforementioned partner like crazy. He dug in his pocket and pulled out a battered photo he’d filched from Riley’s wallet before they’d parted. There was Riley – his sunshine – leaning over the porch rail, and Sarah standing in front of it.

“See?”

She smeared snot across her cheek and stared at the photo. “Oh! My! God! I know him!”

Spike squinted at her. “Don’t talk rot.”

“I totally know him,” she replied coolly.

Spike had a brief, nightmare-ish thought that Harmony might have slept with Riley before he did. He almost didn’t want to know, but to his relief, he didn’t need to question her further – she volunteered the information.

“He asked me for directions one time – back in Sunnydale. He wanted to know how to find …” It was like a light being switched on. “… you! It was you he was looking for! That night! He went to ‘Willies’ and found you! You totally owe me!”

It was so ridiculous it had to be true.

“So, you didn’t _know_ him, know him, right?” Spike examined his fingernails, his lips pursed.

“No, silly!” She thwapped him on the arm. “Though …” she looked slyly at the photo.

“Hey!” He snatched it away and hid it.

“So, where is he now?” she said. “Do you miss him?”

Her 24 carat Bakelite sympathy touched something in him that he didn’t want touching just now, and definitely not by her. “Yeah … course I miss him. He’s … outside.”

“Outside?” Harmony arched an eyebrow.

“Yeah, outside.” Spike gestured vaguely all around. “Outside the hotel.”

_**“In the street!”**_

Harmony certainly had a fine pair of lungs on her.

“He followed me!” Spike said, exasperated. “I didn’t ask him to – didn’t _want_ him to – God, how many times do I have to explain this! And why am I explainin’ it to _you?_”

“Spike, you’re so mean! Staking _me!_ Leaving _him_ outside like a dog! You don’t deserve to be loved!”

“He-ey!” Spike bridled. Not like he didn’t know it already, but being told it by Harmony was a bit much. By way of self-defence he added, “Riley would have staked you too, if he’d known what you were.”

“Well, that’s where you’re wrong, Mister. He totally knew I was a vampire. Why do you think he asked me how to find one?”

She polished her fingernails on her pink cardigan. “He asked me politely for advice, which I kindly gave him – under threat of death, but, whatever – and he was so grateful he let me go.” She smiled sadly. “It was a beautiful moment.”

“Yeah, well. Any more ‘beautiful moments’ he gets are booked up for the next few decades, so don’t go getting any ideas.”

Harmony smiled.

She was pretty when she did that.

“I knew you had a heart in there somewhere Spikey!” She thumped him on the chest as though she was trying to start the aforementioned organ beating. “There’s hope for you yet!”

“A message from your sponsor,” Angel said as he swept past in the opposite direction, having succeeded where Spike had so far failed. He raised his mug of blood to Spike, smirking. “See? We all have faith in you!”

Sulking, Spike pushed past them both and continued his search for nourishment.

There was only so much patronising a bloke could take.

~~

When he finally reached the kitchen, Spike found Genevieve by the hob, fussing over a saucepan.

“What’s cookin’ Gen? Not supposed to heat it too much you know – takes all the life out of it.”

“Oh, it’s not blood.”

He cocked his head. “What then?”

“Just somethin’ I’m tryin’,” she said enigmatically.

Spike peered into the pan.

_“Rusty nails?”_

She winced. “I’m just trying to see if there’s anything else I can live on, apart from blood.”

Spike looked uncertainly at her. Maybe she _had_ suffered brain-damage from lack of food so early in her vampiric career. “And you’re doin’ that because …?”

“Well, I was talking to Harmony –”

“Well, that’s your first big mistake, right there.” Spike shook his head.

“And she said that even if I only used hospital blood, I was still taking it from people who needed it more – accident victims, and people having operations. So I felt really bad about it and –”

“Wait up half a mo.’ What d’you mean, ‘people who need it more’? Who needs it more than you? You need it to live. It has to be blood …”

For a split second, he seemed to be surrounded by worried-looking faces – some he didn’t recognise, but Buffy was there, and Xander and Willow … As if in a trance he murmured, “Of course it’s blood. It’s always blood …”

“Well maybe it doesn’t have to be,” Genevieve replied brightly, her enthusiasm snapping him out of it. “Rusty nails have iron in them, and blood has iron in it –”

“And if you weigh the same as a duck you’re a witch, right?” Spike said, trying to stop his mind wandering, and hoping the chip wasn’t doing something weird. “What’cher gonna put in your brew next, Nanny Ogg?”

“Well, I thought I’d try cabbage –”

_**“Cabbage!”**_ Spike spluttered. “Listen carefully to me Gen, because I’m only gonna say this once. _**Vampires cannot live on cabbage!”**_

Undeterred by his lack of enthusiasm for her research, she demanded, “Have you tried?”

“Look, I don’t care what Harmony said to you. That girl’s got about as much up here –” He pointed to his head: “– as a dead fruit fly. She’s just jealous ’cos Angel’s calling in a few favours to keep you supplied with hospital surplus. But as far as I can see, you’re entitled to it. Didn’t get yourself bitten on purpose, did you?”

She shook her head vigorously.

“Well, then, you _are_ an accident victim – victim of an assault, anyway. That’s even more traumatic!” Spike concluded. “Not your fault you need a blood transfusion every day. You ask me, blood should be given free to all vampires, on the National Health – ’cept … you Yanks don’t have that, do you …?”

He tailed off, suddenly despondent at the social injustice of the American Way.

“Well then, if you don’t want it, I’ll have it,” he said, brightening up. “Don’t want to see good O-Pos goin’ to waste.” He swiped a pack from the fridge.

“Hey!” She snatched it from him. “That’s mine!”

Spike grinned and pointed a finger at her. “That’s my girl!”

 

**Night 5: Monday 29th January**

Spike wandered around the back office, picking things up and putting them down again: scrolls; amulets; a glass sphere that looked like a paperweight with someone’s dried intestines preserved inside it. Shouldn’t really play around with mystical items – probably ruin the feng shui of the place, or turn him into a newt or some such – but it gave him something to do with his hands.

The surgeon bloke was meant to be showing up any minute now, which was why he was hanging about in Wesley’s office messing with his stuff.

He picked up a photo of Wesley and Cordelia, taken in one of those little booths – Cordelia mugging furiously and Wesley looking like he knew this was supposed to be fun, but didn’t really know how to participate.

Funny old bird he was; well, he wasn’t really old – just behaved like it. All the Council types were a bit odd, mind, but Wesley was the strangest he’d met. As for how _he’d_ have ended up if he’d joined the Watchers’ Council instead of the Scourge of Europe ... well, probably best not to think about it.

Lucky escape, all things considered.

There was a tremor in the force; Spike didn’t bother looking up. “Why d’you send him away?” he asked cautiously.

Angel looked over Spike’s shoulder at the photo. “Didn’t want him in the line of fire.”

“What d’you mean? We’re not gonna be –”

“Not us, Spike. Wolfram &amp; Hart and whatever it is they’re building up to. And about that – I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”

This sounded ominous. Spike turned to face him.

Angel looked uneasy as he said, “I have a favour to ask.”

“Yeah …?”

“A big favour. You can say no if you want, I can’t blame you if you do. Was gonna ask you last night but I got …”

“Yeah, let’s forget about that, eh?” Spike said, quietly.

“Please.”

There was a long silence.

“Well, spit it out, Mate. Can’t say ‘no’ till I’ve heard it, can I?”

“After the operation – will you stay for a while? I mean, even if there are no major problems when the chip is out?”

Spike left a pointed silence before saying, “I thought we were forgetting about –”

“I don’t mean like that. Really, that was an aberration.”

That stung.

Angel must have noticed his hurt look, because he hastily clarified, “I shouldn’t have … you know. It’s not my place any more. If it ever was. But I need someone to help me get back in fighting trim. I feel like there’s something about to break – maybe the biggest fight of my life.”

“Bigger than when Buffy sent you to hell?” Spike enquired, getting interested.

“Well, maybe not quite that big,” Angel admitted. “At least, I hope not. But Wolfram &amp; Hart are a lot bigger than a single Slayer. They keep sending things after me … and I’ve been slack lately – need to sharpen up.”

“Well, I’m not exactly the sharpest sword in the weapons chest myself these days,” Spike said regretfully. “Letting a couple of humans get the drop on me like that … shocking.”

It was true – he was feeling off his game.

“I appreciate that, but I can’t use any of my staff to train with. Gunn’s the only real fighter among them –”

“You have a staff member called ‘Gun’?” Spike snorted. “No shortage of iconic names around here, is there?”

“But he’s human. I could hurt him. And he’s got a particular thing against vampires. I’m not sure that he’d be able to stop his vampire-killing instincts taking over if we fought. He could even get in a lucky shot.”

This Gun fellow must be good.

“Alright then,” Spike said thoughtfully. “I could do with a bit of a work-out. Ages since I’ve had a decent scrap, and if the demon _is_ a bit antsy without the chip, it’ll help get it out of my system before you let me loose.”

Angel must have been pleased; he very nearly cracked a smile.

“I’ll have to clear it with Riley first.” Spike pulled the picture out of his pocket and looked at it. He didn’t show it to Angel. “Wonder where he’s been staying.”

Before Angel had the chance to speculate, his phone rang – the theme from ‘Mission Impossible’ – and he excused himself.

~~

Riley was at his post outside the Hyperion when he saw a familiar face coming in his direction: Doctor Angelman.

That was odd … suspicious, even.

Not wanting to come face to face with him just now, Riley slid into the cover of a doorway; but Angleman didn’t go past. He stopped at the Hyperion and looked rather nervously at the gates before tentatively pushing them open.

This could not be good.

Riley dialled Angel’s mobile.

“Red alert, Angel. One of the bastards who put the chip in Spike’s head is on his way into the hotel.”

“Someone you know from the Initiative?”

“Yes! I recognise him – no doubts.”

There was a pause. Riley could almost hear Angel’s brain churning. Finally Angel said, “I’m expecting the surgeon who’s going to take Spike’s chip out. He was referred to me as an independent operator.”

“Well, he’s not. And even if he’s left the Initiative, what if he alerts them to Spike’s location? They haven’t pursued us, but there may be a bounty on Spike. And what if he deliberately botches it? Out of spite or something?”

The thought of Dr Angleman getting his knife into Spike again was making Riley’s blood turn to steam.

“I don’t _think_ we need worry.” Angel said. “The doctor was sent to me with a clean bill of health by someone who can read people’s characters. But I’ll make sure he knows that surviving long enough to collect his fee depends on the outcome.”

“He needs to be paid …” Riley said half to himself.

“I guess,” Angel said. “Is that a problem?”

The idea of giving Dr Angleman money to set right a wrong he’d done was … odd. Riley frowned, shaking his head as he made the mental adjustment; but there was no question of putting Spike in any danger by quibbling over terms.

“Absolutely not a problem if he does it right. And if he doesn’t – well, dead men don’t send invoices.”

Angel grunted agreement; after all, Cordelia did his paperwork.

“But Angel, Spike’s got to be okay with this – and frankly, I can’t see him agreeing to it. They did quite a number on him.”

“We’ll know soon enough. He’s here.” Angel cut off the call.

~~

Spike was hanging back so he wouldn’t be noticed while listening in on the call, when he realised that the voice coming out of the speaker was Riley’s.

So … that ring-tone had meant that Riley was calling Angel? He’d heard it once or twice every day since they’d left Cleveland. Angel hadn’t spotted Riley following them at all; he’d known about it from the outset. They’d been in communication the whole time!

That information was stored for future analysis, because there was no time to worry about it now. He’d just heard something that made his blood run cold – colder: Angel had mentioned The Initiative. _This_ was the ‘promising contact’ Angel had made? Was the Old Man gonna sell him out? Had he rescued him from Wolfram &amp; Hart because of some deal with Maggie Walsh’s lot?

Spike was tempted to get the hell out of there without listening to the rest of the conversation, but Angel’s tone was concerned rather than conspiratorial, so he waited.

After a few moments, one of the main doors was timidly pushed open, and a face Spike instantly recognised peered inside.

“Excuse me – is this ‘Angel Investigations’?”

In a second Spike was across the lobby and in Angleman’s face, in full fangs, roaring, _**“You!”**_

“You!” Angleman parroted in shocked recognition. “Seventeen!”

Spike gripped the front of the doctor’s shirt with one hand and clutched at his – exploding – forehead with the other, snarling, “Mr-‘We-could-take-a-kidney-too’ – you fucking …”

Angleman squeaked something that might have been an apology, but Spike couldn’t hear it for the roaring in his brain, as the pain from the chip warred with a powerful urge for payback.

Through the white noise, he heard Angel yelling something – “Drop him, Spike!” But being addressed like he was a dog with his teeth in the postman’s leg just enraged him further, and – to make matters worse – just as he was about to pass on the pain in his cranium by head-butting the doctor, Angel’s big meaty hand clamped onto the back of his neck, preventing him.

He struggled and swore and kicked back at Angel’s shins and called him all the filthy names he’d ever thought of, but through it all, Angel just held on: not roughing him up like he normally would if he’d been defied, but making soothing noises and – what was this? Angel was kneading his trapezoid muscles!

Meanwhile Angleman gibbered “Seventeen! Hostile Seventeen! Oh my God, I had nightmares about this!”

Spike was torn between berating and struggling against Angel, and keeping up his diatribe at the doctor. Neither of them seemed inclined to fight back, which was both frustrating and satisfying at the same time, and he found himself relaxing slightly, despite himself.

He didn’t seem to be in any imminent danger; the massage Angel was giving his neck was actually quite hypnotic, and it just wasn’t possible to sustain his anger at full strength without some kind of opposition. Grudgingly, Spike released his hold on Angleman, who staggered backwards and landed untidily on a sofa.

Angel, in his turn, loosed his grip on Spike’s neck and said worriedly, “If this is what you’re like before we get the chip out –”

“This is the bugger who put the bloody thing in there, and you bloody know it!” Spike spluttered, still indignant.

“I only just found out!” Angel protested.

“Yes, yes indeed, I’m guilty as charged,” Angleman said. His eyes were wide. “And I’m truly sorry, really I am. But I’m going to get it out, I promise. Gratis!”

“See, Spike? He’s going to do it for free!” Angel said in appeasing tones.

“You cheap sonofabitch!” Spike rounded on him.

“Riley already said he’d pay.”

“Oh. Oh, well, that’s …” Spike continued to glare at Angleman: “… completely beside the point. If you think I’m gonna let Dr Frankenfurter here go rooting round in my head again, so he can turn the pain settings to maximum, or get it back so he can put it in some other poor blighter’s head –”

“Hey, I’m not with the Initiative any more, okay? I pitch for the other side now.”

“Why should I believe you?” Spike demanded. “You’re probably gonna run yapping straight back to that Professor of yours and –”

“Maggie Walsh!” The doctor sat bolt upright. “Don’t get me started on Maggie Walsh! That …” Angleman made all kinds of faces as he searched for an appropriate epithet: “ – that _harridan_ is the last person I want to see!”

The doctor’s vehemence surprised even Spike. “Why, what she do to you?” He squinted at the doctor with his head on one side. “She put a chip in your head an’ all? ’Cos, that’d be right poetic, that would.”

But Angleman was already embarking on his own diatribe. “I worshipped that woman! Worshipped the ground she walked on! And she betrayed me!”

A note of hysteria had entered the doctor’s voice, and he had to stop for a moment until he got himself back under control.

“But she got her comeuppance,” he said, with a laugh that was heavy with schadenfreude, and touched with insanity. “Some of the men found out she had spy-cameras in their bedrooms! You should have seen the stink that caused! Then there was that half-finished Frankenstein of hers. Ha! I told her to make do with a mechanical attachment – we’d have been finished weeks ago if she had, but, ‘Oh, no!’ It had to be a Polg–”

“So … let’s be absolutely clear about this,” Spike cut in, looking intently at Angleman, and wondering whether the doctor was going to implode before he could perform the operation. “You and Walsh aren’t best mates any more then? Is that the gist and the nub of the whole brouhaha?”

Angleman giggled shrilly. “Kind-of ironic really – she failed a psych test! Then she lost it completely. They had to lock her up! Padded cell, strait-jacket, the whole shebang!”

Spike’s eyes widened. “Well; I didn’t see that coming! Maybe there is some justice in this world.”

“You have to understand, I was fresh out of Med. School when I met her,” Angelman said. “-Very wet behind the ears. And she just seemed so – brilliant! I didn’t see the madness at first – just saw how powerful she was. I was completely under her spell, almost like I was hypnotised. But she was crazy as a snake, I see that now.”

“Huh! I can’t say I don’t know what that’s like.”

Spike mentally checked himself for his unconsidered comparison of Maggie Walsh to Drusilla. “Well, we all make mistakes.”

“I’ll gladly remove the prototype for free. Think of it as some measure of recompense for the damage I did to you. Believe me, I didn’t go into medicine so I could experiment on sentient beings. I just wanted to _help_ people. But the training’s a bitch. They grind you down, year after year – you don’t know what it’s like. First it’s a dead frog to cut up, and you think, ‘poor little frog’, but it’s already dead, so you do it, even though it makes you queasy. Then it’s a mouse, and it’s alive when they give it to you, but they tell you, ‘well, it’s just _one mouse,_ and think of all the lives you’ll end up saving’, and then before you know it you’re up to your elbows in dog entrails, and transplanting monkeys’ heads for an encore. It’s the stuff of nightmares, I’m telling you.”

“Yeah, training …” Spike glanced at Angel, and was surprised to see that even _he_ seemed slightly disturbed and was avoiding eye contact. “Know something about that.”

“And think about it.” Angelman went on. “Who better to take out the chip than me? After all, I know exactly where I put it.”

“S’pose you got a point there,” Spike conceded.

“So, Hostile Seventeen, we can let bygones be bygones?”

“Yeah, okay.” Spike offered a grudging hand. “And I’m not a number. Name’s Spike.”

“Benjamin Angleman – call me Ben.”

Ben? A doctor called Ben? Why was that familiar?

Spike had a weird sensation, like he was falling, down and down, hitting things on the way, and it was accompanied by a totally inexplicable feeling of jealousy.

“I thought you’d be taller.”

He frowned.

“Do you dye your hair?”

~~

When business was concluded, Spike went outside for a smoke. He’d persuaded Harmony to go and buy him a packet. Okay, he was supposed to be cutting back, but there was no one around just now to be harmed by it, and it had been a bit of a shock, seeing Angleman again.

He sat on a stone seat, and smoked two cigarettes in quick succession.

Dr Angleman – for some reason, Spike didn’t feel comfortable even thinking of him as ‘Ben’ – had said it might take him a day or two to track down all the equipment he needed, and after that, he thought the procedure should take between two and four hours.

Now the operation was nearly upon him, Spike was strangely calm. Everything would be okay. He didn’t know why he hadn’t pushed to get it done sooner, really.

Riley’s confidence in him was a given – sap was in love with him. But Angel’s unexpected support was a massive boost, and he realised now that his real fear hadn’t been that he’d lose it, but that Riley wouldn’t trust him.

Okay, so he’d spent decades wreaking havoc on society; but it had rejected _him_ first; his classmates, his peers, the girl he loved: all had ridiculed him, so given the chance, he’d rejected it right back. Who wouldn’t?

The initial vengeance spree had been satisfying, but after that, his main concern had been preserving himself and the only one who hadn’t spurned him – at least not consistently: Drusilla. Hadn’t cared one way or another about his victims’ feelings because experience told him they didn’t give a damn about his. On the whole, he’d eaten the rich. They tasted better, and had fatter wallets.

But now – he’d made connections: Riley, Sarah, Josh, Al; even Clem and Willy-the-Snitch; they’d all played a part in his drama; helped convince him that not everyone was a heartless, soulless monster, like Fletcher; like Cecily and Maggie Walsh.

He wasn’t going to promise he’d never eat another human again: that was too much to ask. But he could decide to use his powers for good – why not? These days, the thought of killing someone at random seemed just too … well, random.

He got up, wiped his hands on the front of his jeans, and was about to go inside, when he sensed a presence nearby – exotic and dangerous and familiar. His instant reflexes as conditioned as Pavlov’s dogs, he breathed in her essence, and stood tall to greet her.

“Drusilla.”

~~

Riley was watching from the shadows. Someone – a female – was approaching Spike. She was a ‘cold one’ – or so his infra-red sights told him. Spike got to his feet and addressed the visitor, and Riley let his night-sights drop against his chest.

So.

This was Drusilla.

Riley felt Spike filling up with lust and longing and bittersweet nostalgia.

It made Riley want to throw up, or run away, but for now, he did neither; just stood stock still and watched them; watched the way their bodies spoke wordlessly, each to the other, in a language both subtle and charged with heat – their movements choreographed by decades of intimate relations.

Drusilla was beautiful, deadly, and nothing like himself. Fascinating and disturbing to try to imagine what Spike’s life must have been like … with her. Spike had said little about her that was favourable; never mentioned her appearance, her stature, or anything about the good times they must have had together, and now Riley understood why.

If he had, it might have overwhelmed him – sent him off on a fool’s errand to find her again; but now here she was, come to find him, and Riley couldn’t imagine how he could compete with this.

Didn’t know whether he even had the right.

She had been Spike’s companion for a length of time that made his own liaison with the vampire seem like the beating of a gnat’s wing; the brief sharing confidences between strangers on a train.

Now, the engine had pulled into the final station – their train had reached the end of the line.

He couldn’t blame Spike.

It would be futile even to try to hold on to him.

This time he didn’t bother attacking the buildings. With an emptiness inside which he didn’t dare go near, for fear of being swallowed by it, he turned and walked away.

~~


	7. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drusilla makes a play.

With rocks in his heart, Riley wandered away, taking the long road back to Wesley’s place. He wasn’t even sure why. Some of his stuff was there, but that didn’t seem such a big deal right now. Might as well just get in his car and drive home.

Home.

He pictured his arrival back at the farm, all alone. His Mom would take one look at him and hug him hard, crushing the last fragments of his self-control. His Dad would give him a day or two, before loading him up with extra tasks to try to distract him.

And ’Becca: she’d be heartbroken. Though she showed it in a very different way, she adored Spike almost as much as she adored _him_.

Riley could hear her voice in his head like she was standing right behind him:

_‘So, what, you** left?** Without even** trying?** Or, maybe, I dunno – telling Spike you were leaving? ** Asking** him to come with you? Are you **retarded?’**_

The imaginary kick up the butt from his niece was enough to forestall such rash behaviour. Riley silently thanked Rebecca for her plain-speaking. And thinking about it, to leave without a word to his host would be too ill-bred; it just wasn’t in him, no matter how bad he was feeling.

So he stumbled on, trying to ignore the odd glimpses he kept seeing out of the corner of his eye: unflattering ghostly counterparts of himself, flickering across the panes of glass of the storefront windows; visions which showed him quite plainly, why passers-by were giving him a wide berth.

Right now he envied Spike his lack of a reflection.

Turning a corner, he came unavoidably face-to-face with himself, in a full-length mirror in a furniture showroom. He stopped dead in his tracks. What he saw just confirmed his suspicion. He was a mess. He badly needed a shave, looked as tired as he felt, and his clothes were the same ones he’d worn when they’d gone into the auction house in Cleveland to rescue Spike: Angel’s clothes. The others he’d brought with him had already been worn twice in rotation with what he had on: this borrowed finery that probably cost more than all the clothes he owned in the world.

He looked like a homeless person in designer cast-offs.

Whereas Drusilla … Drusilla was perfect in every manicured detail: as if she’d just stepped out of the Salon of Evil. She was exotic and deadly; a Venus flytrap, opening to Spike to draw him in with her subtle temptations and her beauty. Where Riley was awkward, she was sophisticated; fascinating where he was just reliable; glamorous where he could only describe himself as homely, and that was being charitable.

More than that: she could relate to Spike in a way he would never be able to: not while he lived and breathed, and on a level he couldn’t begin to comprehend. He and Spike could barely even share a meal, but Drusilla: Drusilla had lived with him though wars and depressions, dictators and liberators. Together, they’d drunk deep of the blood of history and drained the cup of the twentieth century dry.

And what did he have to offer?

Life on a farm, where only the sounds of machinery mitigated the oppressive silence; where Spike could seldom venture out by day; where he was trapped in the open, incarcerated by flat fields and surrounded by the smells of dogs and horses and fertiliser.

It didn’t begin to compare.

Spike never complained about the bits of hay or straw that sometimes found their way into the bed they shared, but Riley had seen him sweep a hand across the rough sheets to get rid of them. He would have given anything to turn back the clock; buy satin sheets; maybe even scatter them with rose petals. But it was way too late for that. He rested his forehead against the glass, and looked into his own eyes.

His hand was weak; his bid – less than pathetic.

Maybe … maybe if he smartened himself up – changed his look, tried for a bit more style and a bit less function …

Then Riley remembered those chaps; that Stetson. He blushed deep scarlet. Jesus! If that was all he could come up with to keep Spike, he was done for.

He was tired: tired of chasing; tired of trying.

Sinking, he was afraid to fight to stay afloat; afraid that if he tried to win Spike back, he’d fail; then he’d go under for sure. There’d be nothing left of him to try again – at anything, ever.

At least if he didn’t try, he would never know how badly he could fail.

His brain idling, the gears disengaged, he allowed his feet to carry him back to Wesley’s place.

~~

“Thought you were staying in Buenos Aires with that slimy geezer.”

Spike stalked around his uninvited guest, keeping the same wary distance between them at all times. “How come you’re in this neck of the woods?”

“I went to Sunnydale for a banquet,” Drusilla replied. “But then the clockwork men came to fetch me.” She tick-tocked her head from side to side.

“Oh, right.”

Clockwork men? What the bloody hell was she on about? And why would anyone – clockwork, steam-driven or horse-drawn – bring her here?

“Annoying blokes, aren’t they?” Spike said, playing for time. He ought to find out what she was up to; no good that was for sure.

“Shhh! Spike.” She rapped her own knuckles. “You’ve been a disobedient boy.”

Spike flinched and took an awkward step backwards. Even after what seemed like a lifetime apart, her chiding still got him where he lived. He hunched his shoulders and stuck his hands in his pockets. “Don’t know what you mean, Dru.”

“We had, an appointment,” she snapped.

The edge in her voice cut into him like a whiplash.

“Don’t recall anyone mentioning it,” he countered, with a defiant tilt of his chin.

“I sent out invitations.”

“Well, mine must have got lost in the post. Been movin’ around a lot lately, same as you. Goose, gander, sauce for. Look it up.”

He looked at her through narrowed eyes.

Drusilla wrung her hands. “I waited,” she pined. “I waited all night long. Miss Edith was most upset – the cakes were all spoiled.” Her pretty face hardened. “The Slayer turned off the oven before they were baked.”

Spike sighed. “You’re not still harping on about the Slayer are you Dru?”

“You said you’d kill her for me,” she reproached him. “I sent you down the rabbit hole after her.”

“Well, I’m sorry Dru, I must have had an off day.” Sarcasm was satisfying, though Dru never really understood it. “Either that or they’re makin’ Slayers tougher than they used to.”

“You_ promised_!” she hissed. “You were meant to kill her, not kiss her!”

“Yeah, well, Sunnydale Promises are not worth shit,” Spike said, almost to himself. “And I _never_ kissed the Slayer, Dru, _why_ won’t you believe me?”

The desperate, exasperated whine he heard coming from his own mouth made Spike angry at himself, and her. Why did he feel the need to defend himself?

“I was never with the Slayer,” he blurted. “Nor never will be – you’re deluded if you think it. I told you. Slayers and Vampires – they don’t go well together. I _know_ it. I'm not a complete idiot.”

He felt a lump rising in his throat. But why? Wasn’t as if he’d ever _wanted_ the Slayer …

“But I see her there with you, Spike.”

Drusilla was staring at a spot just to his right.

Spike followed her gaze.

Perhaps he was as crazy as Dru, because just for a moment, he could see Buffy right there in front of him, manacled between two pillars, and when he looked back at Dru, she too was restrained.

He heard his own voice saying, ‘You think I like having you in here? Destroying everything that was me, until all that's left is _you_, in a dead shell.’

He squeezed his eyes tight shut, and shook his head. When he looked again he was back outside the Hyperion.

That was disturbing. These vision things were getting stronger. Have to mention them to Angel – get him to set his Watcher on the trail.

“Anyway, as I was sayin’,” he said, trying to focus: “Vampires and Slayers, generally speaking, not the best of mates. Don’t know where you get these addle-brained ideas.”

He’d got by for decades without ever calling her crazy to her face, and now, shocked by his own temerity, Spike shut his mouth.

But maybe it paid to be honest for once, because Drusilla looked like she might finally be starting to believe him. She ghosted a hand within a hair’s breadth of his face, tilting her head as she listened to something only she could hear. She drew in a sharp breath. “The stars must have been lying to me, Spike. P’raps they don’t love me any more.”

She loosed a high-pitched keening sound, swaying slightly and clutching Miss Edith more tightly to her breast.

A tear ran down her cheek.

It nearly broke Spike’s heart to see her in distress; it always did. After all, it wasn’t her fault she was bonkers. But as he reached out to wipe away the single glistening teardrop, he saw the fate it held within its shining surface.

His hand would brush the jewel of salt water from her face. She would lean into him, her mood changing like the colours on an octopus; push into his touch, and purr as she bent him to her whim once again: as she’d always done. Then his arms would be wrapped around her, and before you could say ‘Jack Robinson’ he’d be trapped, back in her cracked wonderland, dancing attendance on her forever: just another one of her dollies, and not always the favoured one at that.

And Dru would kill for him, or else he would dissemble for a day, and get the chip taken out, before leaving with her, all his good intentions blown to hell. And Iowa would be just a dream, even further out of reach than when he was in that dungeon in Cleveland.

And it would be easy; so easy. Just let go and watch the hands of the clock turn backwards. Wasn’t that what he’d wanted: to have his old life – his old love – back?

It was: once upon a time.

He pulled back, holding onto one hand with the other to keep it from temptation; her tear fell unhindered.

“They don’t love me any more. The stars don’t love me because I was wicked.” Drusilla smiled slyly. “Because I left you.”

Unnerved, Spike lashed out: “Yes, you did. _ You_ left _me_, Dru. Thanks for reminding me.”

“I’ve learned my lesson,” she said, meek as a lamb.

“Yes, and I’ve learnt mine,” he replied. “I didn’t see it then, but – when you dumped me? – did me a favour. It was time to move on. I’m grateful to you, for what we had all those years. What you did for me. Haven’t forgotten it – any of it. Don’t regret it neither.”

Spike blinked hard. Not going to crack.

“But I don’t owe you anything, nor you me. You don’t need me. I thought you did, but you don’t, and you’ve proved it. You get by just fine on your own.”

Drusilla listened coldly to his valediction.

“I’d be no good to you anyway,” he muttered. “Been neutered. Can’t kill.”

“Tch!” She spat. “Bad Spike! You’re lying …” She took on a dreamy, distracted air. “Well, you will be soon …”

“Yeah, well. Okay.” Spike kicked at the ground with the toe of his boot. “If it works. But even if it doesn’t – I’ve done the whole ‘enfant terrible’ thing. Time I left the nursery Dru. Maybe you should too.”

“But _why_, Spike,_ why?_” She tilted her head, listening to prompts from her invisible friends offstage, and made a snatching movement at empty air. “I see! You have your own knight now! His mail is gold, his sword is a flame! Oh!”

She bent and collapsed to the paving like a snapped reed.

“There’s nobody left for me now Spike. I’m an orphan.”

On another night it might have swayed him to see her so lost – so broken; but she was ever thus. He tried to harden his heart. It was getting old – a loony tune he’d starred in too often.

“I’m all alone,” she wailed, covering her face.

He took a single step towards her crumpled form, unable to stop himself from reaching out to raise her from the ground. It was the least a man could do.

She stole a glance at him between her fingers, then held out a winsome hand to him, as though this were all a joke that he’d been in on from the start.

Furious at himself for almost being caught again, Spike snatched his own hand back. “You’re playin’ me!” he snarled.

He heard a slow handclap.

Darla stepped out of the shadows. “Not quite a dim as you look, are you?” she said, holding out her own hand to Drusilla. “You’re not alone my dear – Darla will take care of you. Come.”

Drusilla rose as if she were on strings and sidled towards Darla. Standing hip to hip and cheek to cheek, the pair of them reminded Spike of nothing more than the Siamese cats in ‘Lady and the Tramp’.

Have to have harsh words with the casting director about _his_ role in the story.

He took a step backwards towards the hotel.

“Darla. Thought you were dead,” he lied. “I mean, _dead_, dead, not just _un_-dead. Obviously.”

Darla certainly didn’t look like someone dying of syphilis. Maybe Dru had already done the honours.

“Are you un-dead again by the way?”

“I thought_ you_ would be dead by now, with your reckless behaviour, Boy. But here you still are, gibbering like a fool.” Darla quirked an eyebrow. “I suppose we all have to deal with these little disappointments. Never mind. As you’re here, kindly send Angelus to me will you?”

“May I tell _Angel_ what you want with him?”

“What do you think?” She took two delicate steps towards him. Drusilla followed suit.

“Okay, I’ll just go tell him you’re here.” Spike continued to back away. “But don’t blame me if he doesn’t want to see you.”

“Why wouldn’t he?” Darla said archly. Her face changed to show forth her demon.

Well, at least _that_ was confirmed.

Drusilla’s game-face followed a split second behind.

Spike glanced from one to the other. He could probably take down either one of them on their own, but both together? The odds on his survival weren’t good, if they really wanted him out of the way.

“I’ll see you girls later, eh? Gotta see a man about a dog.”

At last he felt the double doors at his back; he slid between them, slammed them shut and bolted them.

Things to do.

Angel needed bringing up to speed, and he ought to call Riley: make sure he was safely tucked up somewhere, and find some way of warning him not to try taking on Darla and Drusilla, either singly or as a pair.

Well, this was a pretty how-de-do.

~~

The sudden appearance of a cup of coffee by Wesley’s right hand gave him a start. He looked up. “Oh! Riley ...” He’d been so absorbed in his books that he hadn’t heard Riley come in. “Good God, is it morning already? I’ve hardly made any progress.”

“No, it’s nowhere near morning,” Riley said in a defeated tone.

It seemed indecent to ask why Riley was back before dawn, so Wesley refrained from doing so. Instead, he invested his answering: ‘Oh’ with as much sympathy as he could muster: possibly rather too much sympathy, because Riley looked a little disconcerted.

“I’m … it’s okay – probably. Maybe.”

“Do you want to … talk?” Wesley suggested tentatively. That was what Americans did wasn’t it? Talked about their feelings?

“No. Just, I dunno …”

Riley clearly _did_ want to talk about something, but he seemed unable to do so.

“Distract me,” he said. “How’s the research going?”

“Not as slowly as I thought when I saw you.” Wesley took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “But still slow. I’m trying to find out when the next apocalypse will be, and what form it will take. I need to know, because this is likely to be the biggest we will ever witness – not just the normal once- or twice-per-year variety.”

Riley’s eyes widened. “We have one or two every year? How come no one sent me a report about it?”

Wesley acknowledged Riley’s feeble jest with an equally feeble smile. “Most of them never come to the attention of the general public. Some just fritter themselves away. Some fail due to natural causes, or to incompetence, over-confidence, or in-fighting among the major players. Others are averted by the forces of order.”

He tried not to sound smug, as he mentally included himself in the ranks of the great and good.

“Still others occur on schedule, but appear to be natural catastrophes, or the result of the activities of politicians or the financial markets. But there’s a big one due. It’s been prophesied for a great length of time – like a mystical Y2K virus, but the date can’t be exactly computed, and unfortunately Bill Gates hasn’t made a patch for it.”

Wesley took a sip of coffee to lubricate his throat and sat back in his chair, steepling his fingers. He’d always fancied himself as Sherlock Holmes, but pipe-smoking made him cough, and he couldn’t play the violin.

And the other thing was definitely out of the question …

Wesley cleared his throat.

“The turning of a century is always accompanied by great upheaval, as well as great expectation of the fulfilment of predictions. But a millennium potentially has the same significance cubed. Even Yeats made reference to it. I’m especially concerned because we recently discovered that Angel also has a large amount of prophecy relating to him, and I’m trying to work out whether there are any points of intersection between these two prophecy cycles.”

This would have been rather a lot for anyone to take in, so Wesley readily excused Riley for saying the first thing that came into his head.

“Will this affect Spike?”

“There’s no specific mention of him,” Wesley said carefully. “But these things rarely name names. There is, however, a mention of the vampire with a soul playing a pivotal role in ‘the apocalypse.’ It doesn’t say which apocalypse, and neither does it specify whether this role is for good or ill. However, in that Angel is the only vampire that we know of with a soul, and in that Spike is now more closely associated with Angel than in recent times, it is possible that there could be implications for both Spike and yourself if you continue your association with Angel.”

“The phrase, ‘collateral damage’ comes to mind.”

“Exactly. My advice to you would be to make your stay in this vicinity as brief as possible.”

Wesley’s recommendation wasn’t entirely unbiased, but Riley nodded, as though it seemed to make sense.

“So ...” Riley took a deep breath. “Would the presence of a vampire called Drusilla have any bearing on all of this?”

Wesley studied him closely. “You’ve seen Drusilla?”

Riley nodded grimly.

“Here? Are you sure?”

“Yes, she was with … she was talking to Spike.” Riley’s voice cracked a little. “He used her name.”

“‘We’ll have the full house …’” Wesley murmured.

“‘Full house’?”

“‘To win ourselves a painful death’,” Wesley said calmly, adding by way of clarification, “Just something Cordelia said.” He sighed. “I’ll have to factor this new information into my research.”

Then he glanced at Riley and realised how the poor chap must be feeling right now. Judging by his appearance, he could be on the verge of a breakdown.

“Meanwhile ...” Wesley moved his books over to make room on the sofa. “Perhaps _you_ should sit down, and let me get you a drink.”

~~

Like a big dumb dog, Riley did what the smart British guy told him. He didn’t feel capable of doing anything except sitting there waiting for the next command.

When his phone rang, it nearly stopped his heart. He fumbled and dropped the mobile on the floor where it contrived to disappear under the sofa. He scrabbled for it, retrieved it and answered it with a breathless, “Yes?”

“Hey, Riley. S’me.”

Riley looked pleadingly at Wesley, who murmured, “I’ll get you some tea,” and diplomatically left the room.

“Hey Spike.”

His voice sounded much more composed than he felt, but his heart was hammering so painfully that Spike must surely be able to hear it.

“Just had a visit from my ex.,” Spike said.

So: he wasn’t even trying to hide it. The shred of confidence that had crept back into Riley’s heart during his talk with Wesley dissolved like morning mist.

“Yes, I know. I mean, I guessed there was something up – you’re a bit early.” Riley cursed his lack of suave. “You don’t usually call this early.”

“Yeah, I just wanted to tell you –”

“You don’t have to tell me anything, Spike.”

“What?” Spike said abruptly.

“Just … don’t okay?” Riley had never felt so weary. “You don’t have to say it. I know. It’s fine.”

A pensive, “Huh,” was the only response from Spike.

~~

Riley must have seen him with Drusilla. But clearly he hadn’t stayed for the grand finale. To think of Riley going through this alone, in some seedy – well, knowing Riley in some up-market – hotel room ...

Poor sod must be doing his nut.

~~

“I know how it is –”

“Hold your horses,” Spike said. “You don’t know –”

“I’ll see you around okay?” Riley didn’t think he could stand to hear anything Spike was likely to say to him right now.

“Riley, wait –”

Riley clicked the phone off.

It rang again almost immediately.

He ignored it.

If he ignored it, maybe this wasn’t happening. Maybe Spike wouldn’t insist on explaining to him, exactly why it was a good thing he was going back to Drusilla, or on thanking him for everything he’d done, or – God help him – asking if they could still be friends.

It rang again. Was it more insistent this time? He nudged the phone away across the coffee table, and it stopped.

Wesley came back in with two mugs, and when it rang once more, Wesley said, “Aren’t you going to answer it?” He sounded deeply concerned.

Riley swallowed hard, and reached for the phone: just as it stopped ringing.

_“Shit!”_

Now that he’d changed his mind, he thought he might just go insane if he didn’t talk to Spike right this second. He punched in Spike’s number with a trembling finger, and it was answered straight away.

With no preamble Spike said firmly, “I’m not goin’ back to her if that’s what you think.”

Riley swallowed again, hardly daring to hope. “You’re not?” His voice wavered.

“You do know the meaning of the word ‘ex’ don’t you?”

“Well, yeah but … you … you and she go back so far … I don’t understand why –”

“You gonna make me say it?”

“Say what?” Riley was genuinely stumped.

“I _love_ you, you idiot.”

The relief was almost too much. Everything inside him seemed to have turned to water.

“Riley? You still there?”

“Yeah, sorry. Just a little – you know …”

“I love you, Riley Finn. More than Drusilla. More than life.” Spike waited, but when Riley still said nothing he went on filling the silence.

“‘How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.  
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height  
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight  
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.  
I love thee to the level of every night's  
Most quiet need, by moon and candle-light.  
I love thee freely, as I strive for Right;  
I love thee purely, as I seek your Praise.  
I love thee with a passion put to use  
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.  
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose  
With my lost saints, --- I love thee with the breath,  
Smiles, tears, of all my life! --- and, if God choose,  
I do but love thee better after death.’

And Angel’s holdin’ up a piece of paper at me sayin’ ‘You don’t have a soul’, but I know you know what I’m trying to say. And, I changed some of the words, ’cos they didn’t fit, but –”

“Honestly?” Riley broke in. “You still …” He glanced at Wesley, sitting at his desk, trying not to hear the conversation. “Nothing’s changed – with us?”

“Of course not,” Spike said gently. “I don’t spontaneously break into a poetry recital without a bloody good reason.”

“Guess not.”

Riley collapsed back on the sofa, and closed his eyes.

~~

So Spike told his words of love, not giving a damn that Angel was looking seriously disturbed, or that Genevieve and Harmony were both gazing at him, like he’d just transformed himself into a basket of kittens before their eyes. All he really wanted was to be where Riley was now; to be able to reassure him, every way he knew how. He wanted it so much it nearly choked him.

If only he could have got up the nerve to ask Riley where he was, he’d have gone there right this minute; but he’d played along with this charade – that he thought Riley was still at the farm – for so long, that it was well-nigh impossible to think of how to break through the not-so-cunning web of lies they’d built between them with such care.

So he settled for, “You take care, love. Don’t …”

– take on any female vamps you see hanging around near the Hyperion?

“Don’t get yourself into any scrapes, okay? Get some sleep. That’s an order.” Then before he clicked off the phone, Spike added softly, “You wouldn’t be sleepin’ if I was there with you …”

~~

“I need a shave,” Riley said abruptly.

It was undeniable, but what he badly needed right now was some privacy, and the only place in Wesley’s apartment where he could get that was the bathroom.

Wesley looked up briefly, said, “Of course,” and went back to his books.

Riley locked himself in the bathroom, stripped and got in the shower. He was shivering, not with cold, but shock. He turned the temperature dial up as hot as he could bear, and as the water sluiced down his body, it released him – gave him leave to give in to his fear, and his relief. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the tiles, biting his lower lip and handling himself with punishing strokes, as he allowed the images he’d been blocking to flood into his mind.

He saw himself breaking in on Spike, discovering him in a voracious embrace, his body cleaving to Drusilla’s as he ploughed into his old lover, wantonly giving her everything he now owed to Riley.

He saw Drusilla looking up at him, snarling and snapping her teeth; and he saw her rage turning to shocked disbelief, just before she turned to ashes beneath his stake.

He saw Spike’s anguish and his love – for him and for Drusilla – as Drusilla’s dust covered them both.

He came, grunting, half-sobbing, over and over again, “You’re _mine_, you’re _mine_, you’re _mine_ …”

~~

_William the Bloody would like to apologise to Elizabeth Barrett Browning for mangling her sonnet, XLIII. "How do I love thee? Let me count the ways..."_

 

**Night 6: Tuesday 30th January**

‘Tomorrow’, Angel had said. That was when the chip was coming out. Angleman had been kitting out the basement as an operating theatre. There were a few more essentials to be delivered, and if everything arrived on time, it would be tomorrow.

Spike was starting to feel claustrophobic.

The last two days had been spent catching up on the soaps, avoiding Harmony, and passing the time with Genevieve. This combination of activities was more difficult than it sounded, seeing as how Harm had decided to take Genevieve into her protective custody for ‘mentoring.’

Spike shook his head, marvelling at the craziness. Gen seemed to be bearing the burden of being Harmony’s first and only minion quite well, all things considered.

There’d also been a bit of verbal sparring with Angel: when he could be found. No actual sparring up to this point – Spike didn’t want to risk an injury, in case it meant the op. had to be put off.

It was pretty boring.

Earlier on, for something to do, Spike had wandered into Angel’s office, with a complaint.

“Oi. Peaches. I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t tap me on the head and suchlike. Leastways not in front of the help – if you can fit Harmony into that category.”

Angel seemed nervous around him; that was the only explanation Spike could think of, for the reply he got.

“Sure, Spike. I didn’t think. Sorry.”

The double-take nearly gave Spike whiplash. He let out an incredulous chuckle. “Did you just apologise? ‘Cos I’m figuring, ‘Apocalypse Nowish’!”

The Old Man looked up at him, and then quickly back at the computer screen, in a most evasive manner.

_“What?”_ Spike demanded, absent-mindedly turning the object in his hand end-over-end, and rubbing his thumb over the carved surface.

“Is that … what I think it is?” Angel mumbled.

“Depends what you think it is,” Spike replied, just to be aggravating.

Angel continued to look anywhere but at Spike.

“I think it’s that …_ thing_ … you brought from … that place … that –”

Angel paused, then – still not meeting Spike’s eyes – said very quickly: “that stake-with-your-name-carved-on-it.” He added quietly, “It’s obscene.”

Spike raised an eyebrow. “Well, that’s rich, comin’ from you. You used to like souvenirs. And I hear_ you’re_ pretty handy with a stake these days.” He tossed it in the air with every appearance of nonchalance, and said brightly, “I cleaned the blood off it.”

He blinked: a picture of innocence.

Angel winced.

“S’_my_ stake, okay?” Spike insisted. “Says so on it. Look!” He thrust it under Angel’s disapproving nose. “Can do what I like with it.”

Angel pushed it away. “Don’t you think keeping it’s a bit morbid?”

“Hark at the King of Broodiness – Pot, meet Kettle. Anyway, I figure if there’s a stake with my name on it, best keep hold of it, yeah? ’Cos …”

Spike was assailed by a feeling of mingled puzzlement and disgust, as a vision of himself – wearing a grotesque Hawaiian shirt – flitted uninvited across his mental landscape, accompanied by a damp basement-y smell.

“’Cos I’d never stake myself … would I?”

The sentence ended somewhat less confidently than it had begun.

“I guess.” Angel sounded less than reassured. “You better not,” he muttered.

Spike felt his jaw drop. Angel was definitely getting sentimental in his old age.

The subject of Spike’s scrutiny logged off, scraped his papers into a disorganised pile and wandered away, looking decidedly disturbed.

Spike frowned, looking at his stake. There was something else he’d wanted to talk about …

“Oh, and I’ve been meaning to mention –”

Spike looked around but Angel was already gone. Typical! Just when he’d worked his way round to discussing these hallucinations, or hyped-up daydreams or whatever they were, Angel had buggered off, again.

Spike shrugged. It probably wasn’t that important …

~~

Now, he seemed to be alone.

Harmony had taken Genevieve on a Girls’ Night Out, so that Genevieve could meet new vamps. Gen was thinking of setting up a support group for others like herself; assuming she could find any, which didn’t seem likely. Spike had warned her that her ideas might get short shrift from her peers, but hey, she was young and still full of optimism, despite the early setback in her career.

Angel was nowhere to be found – probably off ‘doing good’, somewhere-not-here.

God, it was boring.

There was no logical reason to confine himself to the hotel when the sun was down, but he hadn’t been outside the garden gate since he arrived in Los Angeles, and after what had happened last night, he didn’t think he’d be going out any time soon.

Two or three times today, when Riley had phoned, he’d sounded so insecure that Spike was wondering whether his patent on that particular character trait had run out. He spent most of each conversation trying to convince Riley that no, he’d seen no one of interest; yes, he was getting plenty of rest and plenty to eat – well, drink anyway – and that _of course_ nothing had changed between them, nor ever would.

If he left the Hyperion, Riley would tail him, and then he’d have to pretend he didn’t know he was being followed. Neither of them was likely to believe_ that,_ and it was six-of-one, half-a-dozen-of-the-other, as to which of them would be the most embarrassed when it all got sorted out.

Talk about a tangled web.

Still: might be best to leave it that way until whatever Angel was worried about went down.

He’d already checked there was nothing on TV, so he set about his new hobby: gazing out of the window, trying to spot Riley’s hiding place in the street below. Occasionally he’d been able to catch sight of him – just an elbow or maybe the top of his head – but that was mostly when Riley was distracted by talking to Spike on his mobile. Usually the search ended in failure.

Never one to give up, for all that, Spike scanned the street, still idly tossing his stake from one hand to the other. He was concentrating his attention on doorways, the entrances to alleyways, and the patches of shadow near the few potted trees that stood at intervals on the pavement.

Which was why he didn’t see Riley at first.

Then he did.

Riley Finn was standing in full view under a streetlamp; and he was talking to ... Fuck! It was Drusilla.

Spike flung the French doors open. It was a short drop from the balcony to ground level, and he landed silently, insinuated himself through the patch of garden to the gates, then froze.

She was ready to strike, her French-manicured hand poised, and golden death in her eyes.

Many times before, Spike had watched Drusilla at play, almost as fascinated as her victims. Appalled now, to see Riley thus mesmerised, he wanted nothing more than to shout out Riley’s name – to break the thrall his partner was under – but he knew that before any sound he could make had time to register in Riley’s brain, the man would be dead.

She was that fast.

Drusilla’s pupils dilated; elongated; a prelude to the full change. In a voice hardly above a whisper, she made Riley an offer: “Do you want it?”

Riley, his eyes wide and vacant, nodded dumbly, and offered his neck. An audible crackle signalled the emergence of Drusilla’s game-face, and the sound sent Spike cannoning into Riley’s side just as Drusilla’s canines broke the skin. Now, Spike too, was in full fangs. He landed on top of Riley, bracing his arms on either side of him.

“He’s _mine!_” The words came clawing their way out of his throat as Spike glowered up at Drusilla. “You don’t_ turn_ him! You don’t _touch_ him!”

Blood was trickling from the wound on Riley’s neck. Spike tore one hand up from the ground, and with a degree of control he didn’t know he had, placed his flattened palm to the injury, and pressed down, hard. A red meander of blood started up between his fingers. He watched it for what seemed like an hour, trying very hard not to inhale. When he was finally able to drag his gaze away from it, he raised his head to look at Drusilla.

Her mouth was open in genteel outrage, one hand raised delicately at shoulder height, as though a tray of drinks had just whisked past her without giving her time to pluck a glass for herself.

“Why Spike, that’s most indecorous of you,” she said. “I was going to make a nice party for all of us.”

“You were trying to take what’s not yours to have Dru. Trying to take …”

His jaw worked and his throat was tight as he looked down at Riley’s dazed, slightly panicked expression.

“But Spike,” she pleaded. “We could be happy together again. Look at ’im! He’s perfect.”

She indicated Riley’s prone form with an elegant gesture, strangely out of keeping with her affected cockney. “Don’t need Daddy anymore.” She hugged herself. “I’m all grown-up now. I can make us a lovely new family.”

Fuck! So that was her plan?

“No! I told you – no more family.” Spike cracked the bones in his neck. “I’m not sharing no more. Not with Darla, not with Angel, and not …”

In the face of her affront, he almost lost the will to go on, but finally managed to say it: “Not with you … pet. Savvy?”

Drusilla’s eyes narrowed. “There’s a bad fox in the henhouse!” she hissed. “But I _will_ have my pretty chicken back!”

“No, Dru. No you won’t.” Spike’s head dropped. He didn’t quite trust himself to look at her as he said, “It’s over between us.”

“Very good.” She drew herself up. “Go and play your little country games with the Straw Man.”

Spike heard Riley draw in a sharp breath.

Drusilla cupped her hand at the side of her mouth, as if imparting some momentous secret. “Keep him if you can, when the clocks change.” She giggled. “Keep your Little Johnny Appleseed!”

Feeling Riley flinch beneath him, Spike knew a secret fear had been laid bare, and he turned cold with rage. “_What_ did you call him?”

No one was going to hurt this man: _**no one**_.

As she turned to leave, Spike sprang at her retreating back, his stake arcing through the air to strike home. It pierced her dress and ripped it, but glanced off as Spike was jolted backwards in mid-spring. He landed hard, and slammed the ground in frustration, struggling to free his ankle from Riley’s grip, as Drusilla drifted further out of range.

She was laughing, still, but the sound spoke of unbearable sadness.

Spike thumped the ground again with both fists, then twisted where he lay.

“Why?” he demanded. “Why did you stop me? I was going to do it. For you! To prove –”

The surroundings dissolved, Riley’s form morphing and changing to become that of the Slayer – and he was back in that scene again: Drusilla and the Slayer, both held captive … by him. He held a stake at Drusilla’s breast, and she laughed, just the way she was doing now.

As the echoes died, he came back to the present with Riley looking intently into his face. Spike shivered. Where the hell was all this coming from?

“Spike, you don’t have to prove anything.” Riley propped himself on one elbow and caressed Spike’s shoulder. “I wouldn’t ask it of you – I couldn’t. It wouldn’t be right.”

“But she tried to –”

“I had it covered,” Riley said. He showed Spike his right hand, and then looked from the hand to Spike and back again in puzzlement. His fingers were curled, as if holding a cylindrical object, but his hand was empty.

“I had a stake – I’m sure I had one right here. I was ready to dust her as soon as she …”

Suddenly – irrationally – angry with Riley, Spike gripped him by the shoulders, shaking him. “Why d’you think I told you to stay away?”

Still wondering at the emptiness of his hand, Riley just said blankly, “I don’t know …”

“Precisely because of this sort of caper.”

Riley peered at him, starting to get suspicious. “You knew Drusilla would be in LA?”

“No! No, I didn’t. But where Angel is, there’s always some kind of danger – some … complication.” He grasped Riley’s face with both hands. “Wanted to protect you,” he growled, and crushed his mouth against Riley’s in a jaw-breaking kiss that left Riley no breath to moan his submission.

Still in game-face, Spike tasted blood.

Shit! Fine way to show your love that was: scarring your mate.

He pulled back, but for once he couldn’t shake the demon off, and Riley moved in to kiss him again, in spite of it. Spike resisted, shoving Riley back so he could take some calming breaths, trying once again to suppress the demon. But the separation of a few seconds as they looked each other full in the eye for the first time in days just added fuel to the fire, and they came crashing together again.

They barely heard the hooting of car horns and the wolf-whistles from passers-by as they let the rip tide take them where it would. Finally, still engaged, as they reclaimed what they’d so sorely missed, Spike pulled Riley to his feet and led him into the garden.

~~

Playing rough, they were going to be left with bruises, but that was okay with Riley. Both their mouths were cut and bleeding and he didn’t give a damn. He would have crawled between Spike’s jaws and set up home there if he could, and when Spike pulled away, it felt like it might just be the death of him.

He held his breath: needing, but not daring to close the gap.

Spike tilted his head and locked their gazes. He moved in as if to kiss Riley once more, and Riley parted his lips and swayed towards him; but Spike stopped short; he nipped the tip of Riley’s tongue, then closed his eyes and licked the blood from the injury.

Riley shuddered – held on a knife-edge – and as Spike lapped the blood from all the small cuts, around and inside his mouth, he almost came.

And nothing mattered but this; Spike filling all his senses, shoving him down onto a stone seat and straddling his hips; Spike, kissing him brutally, whimpering into his mouth like it was the first time; clinging on like there was no safety net, his fingers digging into Riley’s shoulders; Spike, pulsing against him to the heartbeat of the oldest stars; Spike was all there was, and all there needed to be.

Riley surrendered to it, barely able to breathe, relief and arousal flooding though him.

It was all good.

The rhythmic brushing of Spike’s brow ridges against his own smooth forehead, and the pressure of Spike’s hands either side of his head, reassuring and punishing and holding him in place while he took his mouth – good. The tantalising hiatus when Spike stopped to let him take a breath, looking down on him as though he owned him, body and soul right to the burning core – very good. Spike’s length pressing against him as he wantonly ground his ass on Riley’s thigh, and his balls against Riley’s hipbone – oh, so good.

God, was it good.

Spike’s breath came in shocked, ragged gasps as Riley fumbled with Spike’s jeans, gained access and brought him off with just a few clumsy pulls.

“Fuck, Riley.”

Spike carried on thrusting gratefully into Riley’s fist, emptying himself, spattering the ground. He dropped his head, resting his brow on Riley’s shoulder, and as the tension left his body, his thighs – pale, in the muted light filtering in from the street – began to shake.

“Shit! Sorry – you’re cold.” Riley started pulling Spike’s jeans back up.

But the heat in Spike’s gaze proved otherwise. “How could I be?” he replied. “Never been warmer.” His game-face slipped away at last, and Spike slid off the bench and down to the ground between Riley’s knees. He looked up at him.

“My turn to warm you up …” he said, his words slick and dark with promise.

Now Riley’s fatigues were open, and Spike was lapping around the head of his cock, gazing at him like Riley was his god; waiting to be given leave. Half-hypnotised, Riley gave a slight nod, and Spike took him in to the hilt.

Spike was going down on him; Spike was going down on him, while the oblivious tide of humanity went past in the street, just yards away, and it was too much; it wrung little half-stifled gasps and moans from Riley; his heart felt like it was expanding to fill his chest.

Almost, he wanted someone to see them – to know that he, Riley Finn, had such a lover. He stroked a light hand over Spike’s head; murmured, “Spike … I …”

He rocked his hips forward; so close – almost there …

Then Spike froze.

Riley heard the slightest rustle – barely a whisper of air – then the brutal clang of metal as the gate slammed shut, stunning him out of his trance. “What the hell …?”

Spike slid off him with a look of apology, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “Maybe we _should_ go inside,” he said, suddenly subdued.

“Yeah,” Riley said uncertainly. “Okay …” Beyond frustration, he hoped he wasn’t in some way to blame for the sudden drop in temperature. He stood up, and zipped up with as much care as possible without actually looking down at himself. “Won’t it spoil your ‘retreat’ or whatever it is you’re doin’ here?”

“Starts tomorrow. Come on.”

But Riley couldn’t take the first step. “What about Angel?”

“Fuck what he thinks!” Spike said with unexpected vehemence. “Come on! I need you. Need this.” He took Riley’s hand in both of his, swung it petulantly, then tried to tug him towards the front door. “Hoping you do too,” he said with a searching look.

Riley resisted for a moment longer. For some reason he didn’t feel at all comfortable about sleeping – sleeping? No, making love – with Spike at Angel’s place. Now, he finally understood how Spike had been feeling that first night at the farm.

But Spike wasn’t about to let him go. He turned and walked backwards up the steps to the hotel, leading with his hands, and goading and coaxing with his words, and with all the subtle tricks of eyes and lips and tongue, and tilts of head and curve of body that he knew, and Riley could not but follow him.

~~

Angel had been feeling off-kilter all day. Buffy would probably have said he was ‘funky’ or ‘wiggy’ or one of those other new-fangled emotions that seemed to have magically appeared out of some parallel dimension. All he knew was, he didn’t feel right.

To make things worse, when he’d called Buffy, she’d just been on the way out ‘patrolling’; or so she said.

She’d sounded mighty keen to get gone.

What was wrong with him? Of course she was patrolling; why should he doubt her? It wasn’t good for him to be on his own like this.

Harmony and Genevieve were out, apparently on some new mission. Cordelia was with David Nabbit: good luck to them.

No, really.

And Spike was with Riley. They were good for each other; he’d accepted that.

Had to accept it.

He’d been trying not to crowd Spike since the stupid thing he’d done the other night, but he felt no shame, as he watched the two of them from an upper window. As he watched his son …

… his _what?_

Since when did he think of Spike like that?

He didn’t.

Never had.

Angel felt his fingernails digging into the window frame, as a jealous rage out of all proportion to what he was seeing – Spike, making out with his partner, as he had every right to do – filled his heart with lead and turned his mind to molten glass.

For a long moment, there seemed to be gobbets of fire raining down from the sky, and fires burning all around him.

Something was badly wrong.

He needed a distraction.

Something … someone.

Was there no one for him? No one who even wanted to spend time with him? It wasn’t fair. He felt hollow. So many times, those first few months in LA, Doyle had tried to connect with him; but he’d resisted; held back. Filled with regret, he missed Doyle with a mighty sense of loss that was suddenly the stronger for having been pushed to the back of his mind for most of his waking hours since … then.

Spike’s attentions to Riley became more intense.

What was wrong with them?

Making out like teenagers!

It wasn’t …

Angel could take no more of it. He had to get out of here. Pulling on his coat – yeah, he had a cool coat too – he went down to the foyer and swung out of the Hyperion, bound he knew not where.

When he reached the garden, he saw Spike on his knees on the ground at Riley’s feet, and barely resisted the temptation to take Spike by the scruff of the neck and shake him.

Instead he stalked, grim-faced, past the rutting pair, and – in a voice approaching absolute zero, and quiet enough that only Spike would hear him – he scythed out three words.

“Get a room.”

He noted Spike’s response with venomous satisfaction.

~~

Lilah turned the car heater up to maximum and stared gloomily at the target.

She was disappointed at how things are going – and worse than that, so were her bosses. She wasn’t looking forward to the Seventy-Five Year Review one iota. All the portents indicated that The Senior Partners were going to be seriously pissed.

The only upside was, they were probably going to be a lot more pissed with Lindsey than with her.

Lindsey was the biggest, fattest fly in the evil ointment; so vulnerable, and so un-focused. First Angel, now Darla. Any pretty blood-sucker’s face could turn his head. Lindsey knew where Darla was, that was a sure bet. He must be keeping her from either leaving or eating him by funding her decadent tastes from Wolfram &amp; Hart’s vast coffers.

Despite the fact that the Special Projects Department had three meagre weeks to get the apocalypse back on schedule, it seemed that pandering to his pet tigress was all Lindsey could think about.

As for Holland Manners: usually sharper than Sweeny Todd’s razor, he’d really been off his game. He hardly seemed to have been at the office since … well, before Christmas actually. He’d been taking a lot of leave, ‘to spend time with his family’, if you could believe him capable of such sentimental crap.

So the responsibility for saving her department came to rest, by default, on her more-than-competent shoulders. As a starting point, she’d consulted the Firm’s seers earlier today. They had somehow contrived to be both verbose and cryptic.

“Two roads diverge in the woods,” they’d said. “They run together, they run apart. One road leads to the Sea of Tranquillity and one road leads to the Sea of Fire.”

The Sea of Tranquillity sounded very un-Apocalyptic, not to mention boring, so she’d pressed them on the route to the Sea of Fire.

“The Vampire with a Soul must mate the Vampire Thrice Reborn.”

The ‘Vampire with a Soul’ was a gimme. The ‘Vampire Thrice Reborn’ was Darla, assuming that you counted both her resurrection as human by Wolfram &amp; Hart, and the two occasions when she’d been vamped.

“And that will get us to the warm place, right?”

“That will not be sufficient,” they replied, annoyingly enigmatic.

“So, what other ‘signposts’ are there along the way?”

She could play along with their little metaphor, if it got her the answers she needed.

“As was in the might-have-been, The Vampire with a Soul must lose a life to gain a life …”

They closed their eyes, and she could see their eyeballs moving, as though they were reading their script off the inside of their eyelids.

“… but the time for that has passed.”

“So, what are you saying? We’re bound for Tranquillity, whatever we do?”

The thought of it gave Lilah a queasy feeling. There had to be a loophole. There always was.

“If a Goat leads the way, going willingly to the slaughter in his stead, the road to the Sea of Fire can still be reached.”

“A goat?” Lilah said with a hint of incredulity. Could it be that simple? “So, I just have to find a goat – preferably one that’s suicidally depressed – and slaughter it.”

The seers just shook their heads and stared at her, each with one eyebrow raised, as though she were a simpleton.

“Oh.” Realisation dawned like a day on Venus. Lilah fingered her throat nervously.

“So, _someone_ – some _selfless_ and _under-appreciated person_ – has to sign away their life. Then as soon as Angel boffs Darla, we’re back on track for our apocalypse, right?”

Heaving a disapproving sigh, they had nevertheless agreed, “That is, essentially, correct. But both events are necessary.”

Lilah clenched her jaw. “Well, we can at least make sure of one of them.”

As she pricked her finger and dipped her quill in the resulting puddle of slightly anaemic blood, Lilah reflected with some relief on the fact that her contract with Wolfram &amp; Hart extended beyond the grave. She could afford to make a small sacrifice for the greater evil. There’d just better be a post-mortem promotion in it.

Actually, it was amusing to think that just her name, clumsily squiggled in red on a piece of vellum, might be enough to bring about the Apocalypse. All that was needed now was for Darla to find the key to Angel’s chastity belt and the timeline should jump back, like an old-fashioned record stylus on that rather annoying Monty Python record – the one with two completely different tracks on one side, running one inside the other.

It would be disconcerting for the parties affected; impossible to predict how many that would be, but it would probably have a ripple effect, centering, she imagined, on Angel.

Now _that_ would be amusing to watch. Angel – usually so assured and in control – must be funny when he was confused; and _she_ would be the only one who knew what in hell-on-earth was going on.

If Darla failed – well, the fact that Lilah Morgan’s signature was on the dotted line, proving that she’d been prepared to take one for the team – that would surely count in her favour when the Senior Partners took stock in three weeks’ time.

But she hadn’t given up hope, which was why she was staking out the Hyperion, all on her lonesome. It was too important to leave to the lower orders, and besides, she was determined to take whatever credit was going round.

Lilah’s sources assured her that Drusilla was still in LA, and it seemed unlikely that Darla had given up on her ‘Boy’; but relying on the Brides of Dracula working together in an organised fashion to get Angel back would be like expecting a crack team of flamingos and guinea pigs to plan a presidential campaign.

Lilah had hopes that if she could just catch sight of any or all of the principals in this little drama, the chance to facilitate a fortuitous meeting might just drop like a ripe … diamond … into her well-manicured hands.

The sound of car horns told her there was something going on outside the hotel, and she cursed herself for having zoned out. All she could see from here was a couple going for it on the sidewalk.

That it was two guys was sufficient to pique her curiosity, so she got out of her warm, Japanese-engineered haven, and pulled her coat around her more tightly. Her knees were immediately cold, but on the matter of working attire, there would be no capitulation. She didn’t need to wear men’s clothes to be their superior.

By the time she crossed the road, they’d gone inside the gates, so she sidled up to the ironwork fence and peered inside. A flush spread from her center as she spotted two figures in the garden outside the hotel.

One was William the Bloody, and the other, that rather attractive and still unidentified fighting machine she’d seen in Cleveland. And they were … Well gosh, things did seem to be getting hot around here. She gripped the bars of the gate. What these guys lacked in finesse they were certainly making up for with enthusiasm.

Lilah bit her lip, and tried not to make any noise that might alert them to her presence. But just as the second act got going, Angel chose to appear at the gate; and Angel had to be her priority. Reluctantly, she turned her back on the floorshow, and followed him, at a discreet distance.

~~

Angel couldn’t remember ever feeling so alone. He stalked through the night, looking a lot more purposeful than he felt, taking side-roads and alleys wherever he could, in the hope of finding some damsel in distress, or even just something to kill.

There was a clatter from behind him, followed by a female voice, uttering an expletive. He turned.

“Lilah,” Angel said blandly. “The two things I most wanted to see, rolled into one.”

“Ooh, cryptic. That’s such a turn-on – you know that, don’t you?”

Angel inhaled deeply and theatrically. “So it seems.”

“Yeah, well, don’t get your hopes up,” she said looking around, suddenly nervous. “You’re not responsible for whatever it is you think you can …”

She shut her mouth firmly, looking deeply annoyed that she’d opened it.

“Was there something specific you wanted, Lilah?” Angel demanded testily. “Or are you just here for a smutty conversation?”

“I just wanted to ask you – do you always give up this easily?”

As usual, Lilah’s attempt at ‘casual’ sounded painfully laboured. Like Cordelia on stage.

“Okay,” Angel said snapping his jaws. “I’ll bite. Give up what, exactly?”

“Oh! She’d be cut to the quick if she knew! How soon you forget.” Lilah put a finger to her lips as if in thought. “I’m referring to Darla. You know, Lindsey’s new squeeze?”

“She’ll be the one doing the squeezing,” Angel said coldly. “She’ll have him for breakfast with her croissants. Then she’ll come looking for me, when she wants something more …” He sauntered back down the alley the way he’d come, just so as to brush past Lilah as he murmured in her ear: “… substantial.”

Her sharp intake of breath was worth coming out for, all on its own. It would be wonderful just to change; sink his fangs into that swan-white neck. Not that turning her would make a noticeable difference.

He tasted blood; he’d bitten his own lip with a fang.

How long had he been in demon-face?

He had no idea.

Now _that_ was worrying.

Suppressing it firmly, he walked away.

As he put some space between them, Angel went back over his last few thoughts, if they could be dignified with that title. He often played the ‘dangerous’ card with Lilah; usually that was all it was: play-acting. But during the encounter he’d just had with her, he’d been fully in the moment; got a genuine kick out of his effect on her. There had to be something wrong with that.

Something wrong with _him_.

A few moments later, without knowing how, and not needing to question why, he was standing outside the door to Wesley’s apartment. He’d never been there before. Sure, he sometimes dropped Wes off by the street entrance, after they’d been battling demons; he just never went inside.

But this was Wesley’s apartment.

Angel could smell him.

He could hear the scratching of Wesley’s pen and the soft sound of ancient pages turning.

It wasn’t good for a body to be alone too much.

Maybe there _was_ one chair left now he couldn’t hear the music playing any more.

He knocked sharply.

~~

Wesley nearly spilled his coffee over the last extant copy of Venn’s Cyclical Codex when he heard the knock on his door.

He got to his feet.

Who on earth could it be?

No one ever knocked on his door.

Cordelia was out of town, and in any case, she would call before coming round. That only left Riley: there was a slight possibility that he’d forgotten his key. Not thinking to use the spy-hole, Wesley opened the door.

“Angel ...”

The sight of Angel on the threshold hit him like a physical blow, and he spoke the name, like a prayer: his voice a breathless whisper. He hadn’t seen Angel since the evening when Spike had arrived; this banishment seemed to have lasted an eternity.

His knees wanted to bend and sink him to the floor.

He felt a terrible fool.

“Wes.”

Angel looked as though he found this encounter equally awkward.

“Good to see you know better than to put out a ‘Welcome’ mat …”

He indicated the unadorned coconut fibre affair on which his feet were still firmly planted, outside the door.

“But may I …?”

Wesley realised that he was gawping at his employer. “Yes, of course, I invite you in.”

“Thanks Wesley. I appreciate it. Though you might want to dis-invite me when I leave.”

“Oh, I very much doubt that.” Wesley stood back to allow Angel to step inside. “Sorry, can I get you anything? Coffee?”

“Please.”

Angel followed him into the kitchen.

Wesley knew Angel probably didn’t want coffee. He never seemed to drink it when Cordelia made it for him. Nevertheless, Wesley was grateful for something to do with his hands – apart from wring them nervously in front of him – and somewhere to look rather than at his unexpected visitor.

“So – not that I’m displeased to see you – damn!”

A spoon clattered to the floor, and he and Angel bent to retrieve it. Suddenly their faces were three inches apart.

Wesley inhaled sharply and averted his eyes, then almost tripped over his own feet in his efforts to rise and move backwards at the same time.

Angel waited until Wesley had regained his footing, then held out the spoon to him.

To cover his confusion, Wesley took it to the sink and rinsed it as he hurriedly re-embarked on his train of thought. “But what brings you here?”

“I’m not sure.” Angel glanced around the apartment as though checking for ghosts. “I think I need … guidance. Things have been really weird lately. I keep getting this thing – it’s almost like amnesia, but with the gaps filled in wrong. Like, the other night I –”

Angel sat down hard on a kitchen chair and put his head in his hands. “I came on to Spike.”

Wesley felt faintly sick. Why was Angel telling him this? “Oh, that’s …”

“I didn’t mean to – but I had this, kind-of like a fake memory that things had gone badly wrong between me and Buffy and –”

“– and Spike just happened to be there,” Wesley finished for him.

‘And I wasn’t,’ said a resentful little voice in his head.

“Yes. Exactly! It felt like I was primed, or charged up for something – some significant act – and it needed to … I don’t know, go somewhere. Get let off. I think it tried to go down the path of least resistance.”

Angel frowned at himself. “Well, not that I’m saying Spike’s easy … I mean, we didn’t … he …”

Angel looked at his hands and couldn’t have seen Wesley’s look of mingled confusion and relief.

“I’m not proud of it Wes, and I don’t want to seem like I’m making excuses, but I don’t think I’m quite myself. I wasn’t trying to mess things up for him and Riley. But we have … some history.”

Wesley heaved a deep sigh, but once again, Angel failed to notice anything amiss.

“And I guess I just lost myself. Then just a while ago, I was seeing fires everywhere, though there weren’t any, and the thought came into my head that Spike was my son; that I was somehow responsible for him … accountable for his behaviour ...”

“Aren’t you?” That sounded spiteful to Wesley’s own ears, so he elaborated, “I mean, in a way. As Drusilla’s sire?”

“You’re right, of course.” Angel looked uncomfortable. “And in more ways than that. But I never think of him like that. I’ll admit to thinking about him a lot of ways, but never as a son.”

“Was there anything else?” Wesley said abruptly, rather hoping that there wasn’t. He went back to the sitting room and Angel got up and trailed along behind him.

“Yes, and this is the worst. I don’t know if it’s connected, but just now, Lilah got in my face. I wasn’t in the mood for it, so I rattled her pretty good. Nothing new there, except that, the thing is, I got an actual kick out of it. I mean, _really_.” Angel looked extremely concerned as he admitted, “I was imagining myself biting her.”

Wesley focussed on the middle distance. “‘Like amnesia but with the gaps filled in wrong,’ was that what you said?”

“Yes, why? Have you heard of this kind of thing? Am I going nuts? You’d tell me if I was, right?”

“Yes …”

“I _am_ going nuts?” Angel looked alarmed. “Or you’d tell me if I was but I’m not?”

“No. No, it’s just that I’ve been experiencing something rather similar myself. Like waking dreams. There was one where I was …” Wesley cleared his throat. “Well, I wasn’t in your good graces – far from it. I’d committed some terrible offence. Done something unpardonable. I’d stolen something from you – a thing you valued above all others. I don’t know what it was, but I did know that things would never be –”

He paused and swallowed hard. “Would never be right between us again.”

Wesley felt Angel looking at him – really looking at him for the first time that night. He turned his face away. “I thought I was just over-tired but if you’ve experienced the phenomenon as well, then perhaps it’s more significant than I first thought.”

“So, have you any idea what might be causing it?” Angel glanced at the books scattered around the desk and spreading onto the floor. “Looks like you’ve been researching something fairly complex.”

Wesley tried to pull himself together; put his Watcher’s head on.

“I can’t tell you much, but all I can say, is that we’re approaching a very critical juncture. A temporal crossroads, if you will, but of much greater significance than the ones we negotiate every day. There are two sets of conflicting predictions – two possible destinies ahead, but also partly behind, like strands crossing and re-crossing. What you and I are seeing or experiencing could well be the consequences of some of the choices we have made, or are yet to make, or even choices we didn’t make but which are still hovering on the verge of possibility.”

He became deadly serious. “I don’t want to alarm you, Angel, but what you do – how you behave, and the choices you make – in the next few days, or even hours, could be absolutely crucial.”

Angel looked almost sorry he’d brought the matter up. “Well, how do I know which is the right thing to do?”

“You don’t. And Angel, I don’t want you to spend the next week trying to second-guess yourself. You must follow your own path. But I do urge you, before acting on any impulses, do think very carefully. Your role in this is pivotal.”

“Let me get this straight.” Angel looked perplexed. “You want me to think carefully before I do anything rash … but then maybe do it anyway?”

“I’m sorry Angel, I don’t have a cut and dried answer for you.” Wesley shook his head helplessly. If he didn’t have the answers when Angel needed them, what use was he?

“I wish I did. All I know is that these ‘flashes’ or ‘episodes’ if you like – at least the ones I’ve been experiencing – well, what they show seems … somewhat dire. I would prefer to think they could be avoided somehow. I really don’t want …”

He squeezed his eyes tight shut, but was unable to sear an image from his mind: a woman he’d never met before, bound and gagged – by him – and kept locked in a closet. He looked down at his hands and was sure he could see a bloody axe, just hanging in the air waiting for him to grasp it. He felt Angel’s hands around his shoulders, and jerked away, imagining them to be round his neck.

Angel made him sit down on the armchair, and a few seconds later, he felt a glass being pushed into his hands. Dumbly he took a sip of what he thought would be water, but was in fact whiskey. He choked, and Angel slapped him on the back.

“I don’t remember if that does any good,” Angel said sheepishly.

At last, Wesley felt capable of meeting Angel’s gaze; but Angel wasn’t meeting his. He was looking into some deep, fiery place beyond the stars: some howling void.

“No!” he cried out in despair. He gripped Wesley by the upper arms. “You took him!” he shouted. “Why? Why did you take him?”

“Took who?” Wesley said urgently.

“I don’t know.” Angel shook his head. “I … don’t know.”

He sawed the air with his hands, fending off imaginary opponents. “I have to leave now. I’m sorry. I know you didn’t do anything – yet.”

“Angel, I know this isn’t the right time but if you ever need … what I mean is, I’m your friend, first and foremost. Nothing that happens – or will happen – will ever change that.”

Wesley grasped Angel’s forearm.

“I hope not,” Angel replied grimly, and left, closing the door carefully behind him.

~~


	8. Things Fall Apart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything comes to a head.

**Tues 30th January contd.**

Everything was happening way too fast for Riley Finn. He needed time to regroup; catch his breath. As they pushed through the Hyperion front doors, he slipped out of Spike’s grasp, and by the time Spike made a grab for him, Riley had already swung away down the steps, and was halfway across the lobby.

There, he came to a halt and took stock of the immediate surroundings. So: this was Angel’s base of operations. It was pretty swish; a little intimidating.

“Wow!” He ran a hand appreciatively over the surfaces, as he took note of the positions of the staircases and exits. “This place is really something!”

“Yeah,” Spike said, bemused. “It’s an hotel.”

“But you know – it’s not like a normal hotel,” Riley improvised. “It’s got this fabulous sense of history, can’t you feel it?”

“Well, I could …” Spike said, looking decidedly uncomfortable. “But I’ve got more pressing things on my mind just now.” He rubbed a lewd hand over one of those things.

But though Riley’s own frustration more than equalled Spike’s, he pretended not to notice: stubbornly persisting with his delaying tactics. “Can’t you just imagine all the amazing people who might have stayed here? Gangsters, film stars –”

“Seen it all before,” Spike said, clearly put-out by Riley’s apparent loss of interest in him. “Wasn’t all it was cracked-up to be. I lived through it, remember?”

“You and Angel, both,” Riley replied, a little self-consciously. “But I haven’t! It’s fantastic! Where is Angel by the way?”

Smoothly done Agent Finn!

“He’s out,” Spike said, failing to notice that he’d just been pumped for information. “And what’s this sudden obsession with the décor?”

But now Riley knew Angel wasn’t around, he relaxed enough to enjoy teasing Spike a little. “Well, look at these floors!” he gushed, widening his eyes still further. “And the staircases – all that fancy ironwork – isn’t it fabulous?”

“Don’t know,” Spike replied, moving swiftly through ‘baffled’ to ‘miffed.’ “Who are you, and what have you done with Riley Finn?”

Even though he had been going way over-the-top, Riley couldn’t help feeling a bit offended. “What, I can’t appreciate … stuff?”

Tempting vertigo, he turned in place, looking up at the ceiling in exaggerated awe. “You _must_ have noticed these beautiful art deco light shades – are they original?”

“Don’t know, don’t care. C’mere!”

The threatening rumble in Spike’s voice sent a thrill straight down Riley’s spine, but now he let his attention be captivated by the reception desk. “Green marble! Or is it onyx? Whatever it is, it’s gorgeous! And this looks like real mahogany.” He fondled the wood.

Spike eyed him in a predatory manner and growled, “Carry on like that, and you’re gonna get very well acquainted with that desk, very soon.”

Riley turned to face him, leaning back against the desk in question. “So … you’re not really mad at me?”

“Well I _wasn’t _…” Spike grumbled. “But I’ve got to admit, your excessive interest in the fixtures and fittings is definitely starting to grate on my nerves.”

“And that’s all that’s bothering you?” Riley flicked hair out of his eyes. He glanced quickly at Spike, then away.

“Why? What have you done that’s so bad you have to resort to your Princess Di act?” Spike looked at him suspiciously. “Why would I be mad at you?”

“For following you here,” Riley said. “Shouldn’t you be really pissed? You know – at catching me here after you told me to go back to the farm …” He paused, before adding, with a hint of reproach: “– where I was needed.”

“I told you that?” Spike sounded somewhat shocked.

“Sure.” Spike shook his head. “God, I’m an insensitive bastard sometimes!” “You’re not mad about it then?” Riley said.

“Pfft!” Spike began pacing slowly towards him. “That? I _was_ … for about 5 seconds …”

Riley sagged with relief.

“… some time last week. I’ve slept since then.” _“Last week?”_ Riley stared at him in dismay. “You mean … you’ve known all along?”

“Ye-ah,” Spike said, cool as you like, continuing his approach.

“Angel told you!” Riley smacked his fist into his palm.

“Easy, tiger!” Spike drew level, stalked round behind him and put his arms around Riley’s waist. “Angel didn’t grass. He’s been playing things pretty close to his chest actually.” Spike brushed his lips against Riley’s ear, and whispered, “Give me credit for knowing my own car when I clap eyes on it.”

“Damn! You spotted me.” Riley’s professional pride was injured. He turned in Spike’s arms and looked into his eyes. “And you let me go on pretending, all this time. Why didn’t you say something?”

“Well, I didn’t wanna spoil it for you,” Spike said reasonably. “You were bein’ all covert and stuff.” He batted his eyelashes. “It was so damn cute.”

Riley huffed and gave Spike a gentle shove. “Did you just call me ‘cute’?” He shook his head. “None of my commanding officers would have seen such incompetence that way.”

“This one would.” Spike licked his lower lip. “I’m your commanding officer right now. C’mon. There’s a bed in my ‘Theatre of Operations’ waiting to see some offensive action.”

“You gonna be gentle with me?”

Spike snorted. Gaining command of Riley’s hand, he skilfully manoeuvred him up the stairs, muttering darkly, “Art deco lampshades, my arse!”

~~

When she returned to her front row seat at the Hyperion gates, Lilah was disappointed to find that the show was over. She could have done with something to warm her up after the chill Angel had sent down her spine; boy, was he in a bad mood. She smiled quietly at the thought that she’d done nothing to improve his demeanour.

“Why shouldn’t I just eat you?” said a voice like rough silk: its source immediately behind Lilah’s right ear.

Lilah clutched a hand to her chest, but didn’t turn around. With more composure than she felt, she said, “Not worth it. There’s very little blood in me. Though if you like good Scotch you might get a decent hit. Your call. On paper, I’m already dead meat.”

In a flash of memory, or the dream of a memory, she saw herself and Lindsey clawing their way out of a pile of their dead colleagues: all vamp-kibble, including Holland Manners. “You didn’t bother draining me before …” she added vaguely.

“What on earth are you babbling about now?” Darla snapped. “No, don’t tell me, it’s probably not important. What are you doing here anyway?”

“Waiting for you,” Lilah replied smoothly.

Lilah felt nails like needles digging into her. Darla was gripping her shoulder.

“Don’t be impudent, girl.”

“I’m not. I _was_ waiting for you. I thought you might like to know that right now, ‘Your Boy’ seems a little … shall we say, ‘susceptible’? If you want to get him back, this might just be your lucky night.”

“Hmm. Fascinating,” Darla replied, sounding supremely bored. “But it would pay you to remember that what happens between Angelus and I is the business of neither you, nor Wolfram &amp; Hart.” She glided soundlessly past Lilah and turned to face her. “What’s your real interest in this?”

Lilah smiled, and spread her hands in supplication. “I don’t suppose you’d believe me if I said we just want you two crazy kids to be happy?”

“I wouldn’t.”

There was a warning note in Darla’s voice. Way to push your luck, Lilah: second time tonight.

“Well, let’s just say that evil is our business, and Angel is interfering with it. If you were to turn him back to the Dark Side, he’d have better things to do than rescue the cute widdle puppies that we were trying to turn into nice warm coats.”

Darla assessed her coolly. “Hmm. I suppose that makes a kind of sense.” She turned on her heel. As she walked away, Darla looked over her shoulder, and added, “Just see that you don’t get in my way.”

~~

Angel was heading home – if you could call that empty shell of a hotel ‘home’ – in a worse mood than when he went out. He’d come away from Wesley’s with both less and more than he’d bargained for: any hope of finding answers dashed. Not only that, but he’d probably succeeded in alienating or scaring off one of the few … people he could rely on.

There was a word for that: what was it?

There was only one thing that could make the evening more disturbing.

“Hello lover!”

That was the thing. Hearing Darla’s voice coming out of the shadows was like being hit on the head with a giant candy cane.

Angel stopped in his tracks. “Darla,” he said blankly. “Tonight must be my lucky night.”

“It could be.”

Darla stepped out into the light and sauntered towards him. Her movement made the little red number she was wearing skim her curves most fetchingly: as Angel was sure she was well aware.

“It’s been a while …” she said dreamily.

Angel didn’t move except to look away from her. “Don’t push me, Darla. When I feel like a walk down memory lane, _I’ll_ call _you._”

She halted her advance, pouting. “Not pushing. I just thought ... for old time’s sake. You’re not the only one who’s lonely.”

“I’m not lonely,” Angel snapped. Darla always could hit a sore spot with unerring accuracy. “I’m not lonely, and even if I was, I’m not interested in you, or your lonesome cowpoke.”

Darla smiled archly. “Jealous, are you? Of which one of us, I wonder? Lindsey mentioned that you had a thing for him.”

“He said that?” Angel shrugged. “Lindsey MacDonald thinks my cutting off his hand counts as foreplay? Your reputation for deviancy is under threat.”

“You always hurt the one you love,” Darla said distractedly.  
“Only if you’re … like you.” Angel muttered. “You two should be very happy together.”

“Come on Angelus.” Darla began to advance on him once more, smoothing her palms over her hips. “Tell me you wouldn’t like to wrap those big hands of yours around my throat one more time – knowing you could do _anything_ you want to me, without it mattering a damn. Would it be so wrong? And even if it was, wouldn’t it feel so right?”

She closed her eyes and tilted her head back in submission. “You could tell yourself you were punishing me – reminding me of what I had and couldn’t keep.”

Was it wrong to do something evil to someone evil, if they wanted you to do it to them? He used to know the answers to these sorts of questions. Now, all the lines were blurring, and there was never a Jesuit on hand to discuss things with when you needed one.

Maybe it was only wrong if you wanted to do it.

And now: he did want to.

It felt like a switch had been tripped.

Why not? Wasn’t the hero supposed to get the girl? He wasn’t Sam Spade.

He took hold of Darla’s shoulders, and she smiled that infuriating smile of hers, like the cat with the cream. He smashed her through the glazed doors, onto his bedroom floor, then yanked her back to her feet ready to throw her onto the bed …

A car horn blared, startling him from his waking dream. Brittle fragments of windscreen glass glinted mockingly, reflecting not the moonlight through his window, but the streetlamp at the mouth of the alley.

What did it matter where they did it?

He grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her into his arms; held onto her – and she twined herself around him like ivy on oak. Rapt in her embrace, he felt a release of pressure, as the world shrank away from him.

But there was a familiar – familial – taste in his mouth.

The blood of the lamb.

His own son …

He’d drunk blood from his own son.

“What have they done to me?” Angel growled. He pushed Darla away from him; held her by the throat and shook her like a doll.

She screamed as though his touch had burned her.

As though he’d burned her.

But he kept holding on.

Why shouldn’t he?

~~

Spike had Riley where he wanted him, at last. He closed his eyes and breathed in Riley’s scent; it felt like coming home.

“’S been a while,” he said.

“Five days, twenty-two hours and –” Riley glanced quickly at his wrist: “– fifteen minutes.”

Spike’s widened. “Bloody hell, you kept count?” Riley grinned and showed Spike his arm; it was unadorned. “No – my watch crapped out on me. But I’ve always wanted to do that.” Spike shook his head, and took a threatening step towards Riley. “You’re asking for trouble, soldier.” “Am I gonna get it?”

Riley didn’t sound the least bit scared.

“Hmm. Too right you are.” Spike prowled up to him, ready to make good on his promise; but the wound on Riley’s neck caught his eye. “Tell you what I am still mad at you for …”

He traced the wound and Riley shivered.

“Yes, you _should_ be nervous.” The warning – silk over steel – was for Riley’s own good. “You just had a very narrow escape. Can’t mess around with Dru like that. What were you thinking?”  
“She said she had something to tell me,” Riley said, shifting uneasily. “Like what?” “I don’t know. Something … about you.” Riley’s confession was reluctant. “She said it was a secret.” “What do you think this is for?” Spike spoke more harshly, gripping Riley’s left wrist and showing him the ring on his own finger. “That’s all you need to know about me, right there. Or you could – oh, let me think – ask me? ’Stead of putting yourself in danger.” “Guess I … just wanted to get a closer look at the opposition,” Riley said with a guilty look.

“Can’t blame you for that I suppose.” Spike heaved a sigh. “It’s not like I ever showed you the family album.”

Riley’s eyes sparked with interest. “You have one? A family album, I mean?”

“No, I don’t.” Spike pulled the photo of Riley and Sarah from his pocket. “This is all the family album I need,” he said.

“So _that’s_ where it went!” Riley chuckled.

“I bet Angel’s kept a few photos or portraits from the old days,” Spike volunteered. “I’ll ask if you like.”

“Oh, would you? I’d love to see any pictures from your past. Well, if they’re not … you know ...”

“If they’re not too scary?” Spike suggested.

“Well, I was gonna say ‘embarrassing’, but yeah. I think it would help me. See, I was so curious about Drusilla … what you two had together all those years. And now I’ve seen her – since I first saw her …” Riley looked Spike in the eye. “I wonder what you see in me.”

“What d’you mean?” Spike scratched the back of his neck. “You’re a bloke, you’re nothing like her.”

“That’s just it – I’m _nothing_ like her,” Riley said helplessly. “And – she’s so … perfect.” “And you’re not,” Spike said flatly. Riley sagged a little. “I know.”

“He-ey, Earth to Mr Literal, that was sarcasm.” Spike touched Riley’s cheek. “I love _you,_ Riley.” He knew what Riley needed to hear right now, so he said it. “Only you.” Though it wasn’t true – not completely – it was a sincere statement of intent; that was what mattered, right?

He held Riley’s jaw and turned it to the side, so he could examine the wound on his neck once more. She’d given him a nasty gash, his ex. had, but she hadn’t drunk from him. Spike was ridiculously glad of that.

“Drusilla may be nuts, but she’s powerful. I told you before, she does thrall. She nearly had you – same way she did me.” Clenching his fist behind his back, Spike stroked his tongue along the wound; kissed the ragged margins.

Riley breathed a soft sigh, and closed his eyes. When he opened them again he said, “I can’t believe you’re here.”

Spike cocked his head. “Where’d you think I’d be?”

“Well, here, LA, obviously. But I meant … here with me. Past few days I felt like I was in limbo. Like I’d lost you already, even though I could still see you. Like you were fading away from me –”

“Shhh …” Spike said softly. “I’m here, love. We’re okay. We’re the same. And we’ve got all night to remind ourselves what that means. You’re mine, remember.” He was deadly serious. “Need you. Promise me you’ll take more care in future.”

“I promise,” Riley vowed, adding huskily, “Iowa Promise.”

“Alright then. Let’s have a look at you.”

He took a slow step towards Riley, pushed up the edge of his tee-shirt and stroked his stomach, tracing the line of hairs downwards; he’d never seen anything so fine – so perfect – as these firm, flat golden plains that defined his world.

“Tickles,” Riley said breathlessly.

“Gonna do more than that,” Spike said.

Riley just stood still, seeming content to await Spike’s pleasure and only swaying slightly at his touch, though his eyes were wide with anticipation.

Now Spike stripped Riley of his tee-shirt, getting a lingering trace of Drusilla’s perfume, as well as whiskey, and – curiously – cooking smells, along with Riley’s usual aroma: slightly stronger than usual; rich and familiar and comforting.

He could have thrown himself at the man there and then – taken everything at once – but he’d waited this long; he should take his time. There was plenty to do, and maybe a little lover’s payback to be had, before he gave Riley what he wanted.

Even so, it wouldn’t hurt to check the motor was still revving.

He reached down and casually handled Riley through the front of his fatigues, making him draw a sharp breath.

Fuck, yes; he was ready for anything.

“Hmmm …” Spike rumbled. He brushed his hand over Riley’s length once more; left Riley rocking forward in anticipation of another touch that Spike denied him.

“Not fair,” Riley murmured and reached for Spike’s hand to put it back, but Spike grabbed Riley’s hand instead, and held it captive.

“Who’s in command of this operation?” Spike demanded.

“You are, Spike,” Riley said, a little breathlessly, playing along.

Spike felt a surge in his chest at Riley’s ready submission.

“Good man. Got that right.”

“But …”

“Uh-uh. Had your bit of fun with me before didn’t you? With your art deco lampshades and your fine ormolu workings.” He looked piercingly at Riley; brought Riley’s hand up to his mouth and bit down on his thumb.

“So, maybe I want to appreciate the finer things in life an’ all.”

Taking both of Riley’s hands, he checked the fingernails. As ever – unlike his own – they were clean: no dirt under them; no ragged ends. He turned them over and massaged the palms, rubbing fretful thumbs along the lifelines before looking again, hoping. The lines never grew any longer.

“Can’t rush me …” Spike glanced up at Riley through his lashes. Riley’s wrists begged to be kissed and Spike obliged them.

Then he paced around Riley, re-acquainting himself with this man – his man; with the smoothness, the angles and curves, the scars of battle, and old wounds he himself had left.

Something wasn’t quite right; the Kid had lost weight, and it grieved Spike that he’d brought hardship upon him. “Been skipping meals?” he said, trying to keep it casual.

“One or two,” Riley admitted.

“Better watch that,” Spike warned him: “Can’t have you fading away.”

Though Riley had nothing to be humble about that Spike could see, the man kept his eyes cast down. The fine gold hairs were beginning to stand up from his flesh, and his nipples stood erect and tempting. Passing behind Riley, Spike ran the flat of his hand across the width of Riley’s shoulders and down his back.

“I love this bit – just here,” Spike said, and he bent to place a kiss at the base of Riley’s spine. He heard a slight hiss in response; pressed in close enough that Riley would feel his erection and skimmed his hands up around Riley’s ribs and over his chest, grazing the nipples with his finger nails, then pinching them lightly.

Riley huffed out a breath; his head tilted back; his whole body, from his head to his heels, was flexing – expectant. Wherever Spike touched him, that electricity sparked between them; the scent of Riley’s arousal hung heavy in the air; he was fighting for control, and that was one battle Spike was going to make sure he lost.

Spike came round in front of him now, and ran a finger down his breastbone, watching those sharply defined pectoral muscles twitch. He smoothed the pads of his fingers around the triangular scar on Riley’s upper arm with a delicacy that made Riley shudder, and examined the healing tattoo within its borders.

“How’s this comin’ along?” he said, his gaze fixed on Riley’s bicep while his knuckles brushed over Riley’s cock where it was pressing, hard and frustrated, against the fabric.

“’S gonna be beautiful …”

He lowered his gaze, tonguing his lower lip suggestively.

“Can’t wait to see it …”

Riley made a small pleading sound in his throat; his eyes were bright with want, his breathing, stuttering and shallow. Spike scented the air above the scar on Riley’s left hand where the blood seemed to pump just that little bit closer to the surface. It had been a long time, and Riley’s blood was hot for him.

Then Spike sank blunt teeth into the swelling mound of Venus, crept a sly hand down between Riley’s thighs and scratched and fumbled, purposely inept, and Riley jerked; whimpered like a helpless pup, and came in his pants.

Mission accomplished.

Climax and embarrassment brought such a flush to Riley’s features that Spike was overcome; but Riley was moaning, “Oh-no …” and the rush of cruel pride Spike had felt when Riley gave it up for him died as it was born.

Shouldn’t have done him like that. It wasn’t kind; not kind at all.

“Sorry. I’m a bad man,” he murmured, pulling Riley in close to support him as he rode out the aftershocks. Riley was still whimpering and holding on tight, his eyes closed.

“S’okay, love, it’s okay,” Spike tried to soothe him; assuage his own guilt. “No shame in it. ’S a compliment to me, yeah? Shows how much you want me.”

His voice cracked a little, and he felt a prickling behind his eyes.

Riley just nodded against Spike’s neck, and Spike gentled him, rubbing his back and shoulders, but Riley was speechless with distress.

Trying to lighten the mood, Spike released Riley and punched him on the arm. “Got my own bathroom!” he said, making a grand gesture towards it. “You wanna clean up?”

In a quiet voice, Riley said, “Please, yes. But …”

“What, love?”

“I’ve let things slide. Haven’t had time to do laundry. I don’t have anything – clean stuff.” He passed a hand over his face. “Nothing at all.”

Riley’s confession made Spike feel even more of a shit than he did already.

“Yeah – noticed you were goin’ commando an’ all,” he said scratching his head. “How’s that workin’ out for you?”

“It’s … uncomfortable. Sometimes downright painful. And right now, it’s very unhygienic.” He paused. “But it made me feel closer to you. Because –”

“Hey, pack that in,” Spike admonished. “Feelin’ sappy enough as it is. At this rate I’ll be too busy writing sonnets to take proper care of business.” He shook his head and muttered, half to himself: “Do right by you next time.”

But Riley – unable to get off his train of thought – made a little noise of frustration. “I’ll have to wash these pants before I go back,” he said, adding hopelessly, “They’ll never be dry.”

“Back where, eh?” Spike said, itching to know where Riley had been hiding himself these past days, and grasping at the opportunity to distract Riley from his laundry woes.

“Been staying at Wesley’s place. He was kind enough to offer me his couch.”

“Huh.” That was kind of incestuous and reassuring at the same time. “Well, you should be pretty safe there. And don’t worry about your gear,” Spike added. “I’ll pinch some of Angel’s fancy pants for you – he’ll never notice. His wardrobe straddles three time zones.”

Riley looked as if the idea pained him. “I still have some of his stuff from before. I need to buy new clothes.” He cast a doubtful glance at what he was wearing. “Do you think I should … I dunno … change my image?”

Spike made a face. “What’s brought this on? You been spending all day watching brain-rotting makeover shows?”

“No but … well, Drusilla, she’s so perf-”

“‘Perfect’, yeah, I heard you the first time. But will you please stop with the Drusilla obsession, already? I have.”

Spike sealed that promise with a soft kiss on Riley’s lips, holding his gaze as he drew back. “And don’t you dare change a thing.”

He looked suspiciously at Riley. “I know I’ve shown an interest in certain … costumes, in the past, but don’t let me catch you trying on lacy dresses and stilettos. You’d look like Rocky. Horror, not Marciano.” He shook his head to clear the disturbing image. “Okay?”

“Okay,” Riley demurred, a slight smile sneaking across his face.

Spike looked at him with hooded eyes. “Do you think it makes me some kind of pervert that it turns me on when you’re all insecure?”

“Yeah,” Riley said. He grinned sheepishly. “But I don’t mind.”

“Go on with you then.” Spike took charge once more. “Get to the bathroom and get ‘em off! Inspection’s in three minutes, and you’d better be standing to attention!”

Gratefully, Riley obeyed.

~~

_I’m a vampire. _

_I’m a vampire, so this is impossible._

_Vampires can’t have kids._

The blood spurting from the cut I’ve made in my son’s throat gives me the lie. It’s true then. The words I’ve seen in my nightmares:

‘The Father Will Kill the Son’

Bloody words dancing before my eyes; I had to do it. I killed my son like a sacrificial lamb, but this lamb wasn’t pure; it betrayed me; took what was mine. Everyone’s always taking what’s mine.

A roaring, rushing sound fills my ears, and I’m fifty fathoms deep and bound so tight there’s no relief; not even in the slightest movement. But the suffocating boredom helps stave off the madness-inducing fear – that this will be my eternity; my punishment for being a bad father, just like mine before me.

An unforgiving hand dismisses the errant son from his home … The Sins of the Father ...

But it wasn’t my fault.

If Wesley hadn’t taken him …

A voice beyond despair accuses me: “You let him get me.”

There must be another way. There must.

Now I’ve seen this, I can do better, right?

Be a better parent ... be a real Dad.

I see a happy, normal teenager, grinning at me over a coffee cup.

But he’s not my son – not this boy, not any more – and it’s a different me.

Wesley’s feeble kicks and struggles do him no good as I hold the pillow over his face. Pathetic human: I’m going to kill him. Going to kill him for taking my son: the most precious thing I’d ever known. Everything else – my mission, redemption, my friends, even Buffy – compared to this, they’re all as nothing.

Nothing.

I want that.

Darla will bear this impossible child in her womb.

And Darla needs it too: even more than I.

She doesn’t think so, but she’s wrong.

Doesn’t want it now, but she will.

She’ll love that life growing inside her; love it like she’s never loved anyone, even herself; even me.

It shares its soul with her – and she needs it.

Loves it so much, she’ll die for it.

The stake descends.

Darla … all her dreams, everything she knew, everything she ever was …

Her dust washes away in the rain.

I cry out, _**“No!”**_

But she’s still here.

I hold her close.

~~

Relaxed and sated, Riley rolled over, lazily petted Spike’s face, and said, “I’ve been meaning to ask you – is something weird goin’ on?”

Spike cocked an eyebrow. “Something weird’s always going on, you know that. Just that everyone’s heads are too far up their arses to notice. Anything particular you had in mind?”

“Well, like before, when I thought I had a stake – was sure of it actually. It was like a déjà vu, but it wasn’t; I thought I was in control, and it was the other way round. It’s like my memory’s playing tricks on me. Stuff like that.”

“Yeah,” Spike said. “Same kind of thing’s been happening to me, on and off. At first I just thought my mind was wandering, but it’s more than that. Been meaning to ask the Old Man to mention it to Watcher-boy. Maybe you could have a word with him, seeing as how you’re sharing a dorm.”

Riley nodded. “Good thinking. I don’t know about you but I found it pretty unnerving. I had a worse one earlier on, while I was outside – just before I saw your … Drusilla. I had this daydream, only it was more powerful than that, like watching a movie or even being in one. I was like this hero – this super-cool military demon-fighting guy with all these gadgets –”

“Er … Riley,” Spike interrupted him, faintly amused. “This may come as a shock to you, but you _are_ that guy.”

“Well gee, thanks!” Riley smirked. “But it definitely wasn’t me – not the real me. I had a big truck and a big scar, and really bad hair, and I was married to this action-figure woman with a boy’s name.” He put his head on one side, and made a face. “And you were dating Buffy.”

“Oh, bleeding hell!” Spike thumped the pillow in a parody of despair. “Why does _everyone_ think I have some big thing for Buffy? I don’t even like the smug little chit.”

“Liar.” Riley waved his be-ringed finger in Spike’s face.

“I don’t! I hate her! Slayer! Vampire! Hello?”

“This says different!” Riley waggled his finger again, a little smugly.

“She pinched my bleedin’ ring!”

Riley’s face was a picture: possibly ‘The Scream.’

“Not _**that!**_” Spike shook his head at Riley’s gross mis-interpretation of his words. “A magic ring, you daft bugger – like yours only different. Vampire that wears it can go out in the sun without combusting. Had it on my hand an’ all – pretty as you please – and I wasted it.” Spike gave a wistful sigh. “God, if I still had it, we could …”

No point dreaming about it. Angel had seen to that. “Well, it’d be dead useful,” he murmured.

“But Buffy took it?”

“In double quick time,” Spike admitted. “I was only out there five minutes before she had it off me.” He shook his head. “’Twas my own fault. I was stupid enough to stick around for a bit of … well, revenge, if I’m honest.” He glanced apologetically at Riley. “Showing-off, mostly – bit of gloating. Should have known better at my age. There’s reasons villains get caught. Revenge and gloating are number one and two on the list.”

Riley squeezed Spike’s shoulder. “You’re not a villain.”

“I was then,” Spike said. He sat up and examined his fingernails. He’d painted them again earlier for something to do, but the polish was chipped already. “Wasn’t exactly Blofeld or Moriarty, but I had aspirations. Looking back … I dunno. Guess I was just a juvenile delinquent. Trying to prove I was the coolest, hottest, baddest thing on legs.”

“Hey, you _are_ that guy!” Riley said, grinning.

“Thanks, but – well, yeah, okay, if you say so.”

Spike relaxed once again. He still hadn’t quite got used to the way Riley accepted him – even the bad things he’d done: those he’d had the front to tell him about anyway.

“Lucky to survive as long as I did, some of the risks I took.” Spike shrugged. “Just as well she took it anyway.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well, after that, I went back for revenge – _again._ And if I hadn’t, your lot would never have caught me. Then _we’d_ never …”

They were both silent for a moment, contemplating the twists and turns of fortune.

“So …” Riley looked Spike in the eye: “You think it was worth it? Everything they – we – did to you? It was worth it, for …”

Spike knew he didn’t need to answer. He sniffed hard. “So I suppose she did me a favour really – not that she meant to. Should be grateful. But I don’t _like_ her, like her. I respect her alright – who wouldn’t? But her and me? Having a thing?”

He made a face, not really sure why he was even thinking about it. “I’d never sleep easy. She’d only have to have one bad dream and I’d wake up as a … big pile of dust.” Spike frowned as the words: ‘big pile of dust’ seemed to echo in his head.

There was another one of those silences.

This time it was Spike’s turn to break it. “So, do you miss it?”

“Miss what?”

“You know. ‘Marchin’ up and down the square’.”

“What?”

“Military life,” Spike clarified. “I mean, were you happy in that other life. In your day-dream?”

He tried to sound casual. He tried not to let it bother him when Riley – whether deliberately or not – avoided giving a direct answer to the second, more important question, by answering the first.

“I kind-of miss the action,” Riley admitted. “The adrenalin rush, you know? And after that thing in Cleveland – well, it’s good to know I can still cut it.” He shut his mouth, a worried look crossing his face. “Not that I –”

“Don’t fret, love. I know the last thing you wanted was me getting caught, so you could flex your special skills,” Spike said. “But I know the feeling too. Can’t wait to get this chip out and –”

Now it was Spike’s turn to look worried. “Not that I –”

“It’s okay Spike – it’s natural.” Riley laid a hand on his arm. “Everybody wants to be free.”

Riley was one thing Spike never wanted to be free of. He shot a look of intense gratitude Riley’s way. “There’s only one thing I want right now.”

~~

_He’s torn my dress; I can feel Angelus’ hands on my bare skin as he positions me. But it’s all happening far away, and before he enters me I’m having that dream again._

It starts well enough: a cellar stocked with some rather fine, full-bodied lawyers: at least, they were until we arrived. But then there _he_ is, with an expression on his face the like of which I’ve never seen, and there’s fire snaking towards me faster than I can move, transfixed as I am by _that look. _

Drusilla is whimpering some nonsense, and there’s screaming. Our newly-acquired finery is ruined. Fire and water will do that.

Then I am pregnant, again: heavily, impossibly, with child.

I’ve tried everything to get rid of it. I feel the infection of a soul inside me, poisoning me: such unbearable irony. But it’s his child: it has to be.

Two whites _can_ make a black, and that’s my chance. The sentimental fool, his bleeding heart won’t allow him to abandon the mother of whatever monstrous thing I carry within me. And I will have my Darling Boy back again, if only for a few short months. If I can’t rid him of his pesky soul by then, I’m not worth the blood my name is written in.

But now he’s holding me close – hugging me, slobbering over me; violating me with his bloodhound sentimentality. This isn’t what I want.

I goad him: “You’ve gone without for so long you’ve forgotten where to put it.”

“We’re not doing this,” he says, crushing my face to his chest. “The price is too high.”

What can he mean? What price? I say instead, “But think of it! A child! Your child! Wouldn’t you just adore it? Come on Angelus – history beckons.”

“You saw it?” He releases me.

“Our beautiful child? Yes!” I lie. “I saw it! It should be impossible, but –”

“You want it too? You want to be a mother?”

He doesn’t believe me; I don’t believe myself.

~~

_I search her face. If Darla wants it – even now: why? Can it be good?_

I hold her against the wall, and she mewls and rubs herself against me, striking sparks. It’s distracting, and very hot.

Wesley’s quiet voice speaks in my head: ‘Think carefully before acting on impulse.’

I see him nod grimly, a comrade in arms, but no longer a friend, as he goes out to die for my cause. I ache for him – for both of us. Wes! I know what I am destined to do – I’ve seen it already. I’m going to smother him on his sickbed; and worse, I’m going to violate his mind.

Can anything that would make me do that, be a good thing?

And yet he goes willingly to die for me.

This choice is part of my punishment – my torment.

If I have this child, I’m fated to murder it – murder him. Doyle was lost because I didn’t read the signs right. Will I let my selfishness kill another friend?

But now I know – now I’ve seen – surely I can change things?

Do better?

I _know_ I can do better.

Be a better father _and_ a better friend.

Have it all.

I _want_ it all.

Don’t I deserve _something?_

I press my lips to Darla’s throat and let the red tide take me.

~~

“So. The operation’s tomorrow.” Riley was standing in the bathroom doorway, watching Spike showering. “You nervous?”

“Should I be?” Spike said, not sounding the least bit worried as he soaped himself all over. “Here, get a load of this!” He held out the tube of shower-gel for Riley to sniff. “Like it?”

It looked and smelled expensive. “You buy this?” Riley asked, a little surprised.

“Nicked it out of Angel’s suite when he wasn’t looking,” Spike said with a candid smirk. “So, should I be nervous or not?”

Riley felt himself filling up with panic; he tried to tamp it down. Spike had been in Angel’s suite. Didn’t have to mean anything …

“Angleman’s your bloke after all,” Spike prompted.

Riley shook his head, distracted. “Well he put it in. I guess he’s the best person to take it out.”

“Guess so.” Spike agreed, without much apparent thought.

Riley looked at the floor. “Want me to be there for the procedure?” he asked cagily. “I mean, as I’m here anyway?”

“Best not.”

Riley heaved a sigh. He’d known, in his heart, that the answer would be ‘no’, but he’d just hoped – after tonight – that Spike might relent.

“Can’t be too careful,” Spike went on, repeating the same old excuse. “Wait till the Old Man gives me the thumbs-up.”

“But you think you’re gonna be okay, right?” Riley said.

“I’ll be fine,” Spike’s reply was almost blasé. “At least –”

“So, can I let my folks know we’ll be on our way home in a couple of days?”

As the echoes of the question died, Riley already knew the answer. He bit his lower lip. “We’re not, are we?”

“Well, you’re okay at Wesley’s aren’t you?” Spike said, casually rinsing shampoo out of his hair.

Riley stared at him for a moment, unsure he’d heard correctly.

Spike – his eyes closed to protect them from the bubbles – ploughed on regardless, “He’s treatin’ you alright?”

Riley felt his face redden. There wasn’t enough air in the room, and suddenly he was yelling: “That’s completely beside the fucking point, Spike! Listen to yourself! What am I to you? A fucking –”

Almost choking on his anger, he screwed his eyes tight shut, then opened them again to an uncomprehending stare from Spike.

“A fucking_pet_ you can just leave indefinitely with some stooge? Dump with a minder whenever you damn well feel like it?”

Spike wiped a cloth over his face, and blinked worriedly. He held a hand out. “You know I don’t mean …”

Riley knocked Spike’s hand away. “Yes, Spike. You do.”

Going off the boil more from weariness than any sense of reassurance, Riley spoke quietly now. “You do mean it. You say you love me, but … I feel like your spare wheel.” He waited, but the silence stretched painfully. “Like I’m just … convenient.”

Spike flinched. A shadow passed across his face. He seemed suddenly intent on removing every last trace of soap from his body.

“You’re a big bad demon hunter, I get that,” he said in a low, determined voice. “You think you’re ready to deal with anything life chucks at you, but you’re not. Look what happened tonight. Nearly got yourself killed. I think I’ll be fine, but I’ve never had a behaviour modification chip removed from my head before, so how can I be sure? Drusilla isn’t the only one that’s dangerous. If I hurt you …”

He shook his head, then combed his fingers nervously through his wet curls.

“Yeah, I’ve heard all the rational arguments,” Riley said. “But that’s not the whole story, is it, Spike?” He held up his hand, displaying the ring on his finger.

Avoiding his gaze, Spike reached for a towel, and wrapped it around his hips. “Angel’s asked me to stay a bit longer.”

“Fuck, Spike! Why?” Riley thumped the wall in frustration. “What is it with you and Angel?”

“There _is_ no, ‘me and Angel’, there isn’t …”

Riley just swung away from Spike and hit the wall again, then leaned on it, resting his head on his arms. He felt Spike pawing at him – trying to turn him around – but he didn’t budge.

“Drusilla’s not the only thing lurking out there,” Spike said, in a cajoling tone. “Angel thinks there’s some big bust-up looming, and he needs someone he can train with. Just a few more days –”

“A few more days when he can get his claws into you,” Riley snapped out.

“He doesn’t want –”

“Don’t lie to me Spike, I’ve seen it,” Riley said bitterly. “You didn’t bother mentioning it, but I know he tried it on with you. I saw it. Felt it …”

Spike passed a hand across his face, but couldn’t hide the guilty look.

“That was just … a thing.” He picked up a washcloth from the floor and twisted it between his hands, as though it was important to wring every drop of water from it. “He got confused.”

Riley snorted. “What if he ‘gets confused’ after your surgery or God help him, before. What if he gets Angleman to –”

“What?” Always sulky under pressure, Spike flung the cloth back down onto the wet tiles.

“I dunno – re-program you. Make you turn against me or forget about me …”

“I’m not a bloody robot, Riley.”

“Neither am I,” Riley said quietly. “But they did it to me – him and Walsh – or have you forgotten?” He rubbed a hand over the mark he’d scored in his own flesh, that night in Crawford Street.

Spike was silent, but moved as if to leave the bathroom.

“What if I say, ‘no’?” Riley demanded, blocking the doorway with his body.

_“What?”_ Spike’s face went slack.

“What if I say, we both go back straight away – soon as you’ve recovered from surgery –” Riley felt like he was standing on the edge of an abyss: “– or never?”

“Then what?” Spike said, his eyes widening. “This is goodbye?”

Riley tilted his head, listening; what _was_ that? It sounded like a chopper. The whirr and thump of the blades filled his head, and smote his heart with a devastating sense of his own redundancy.

Horrified, Riley heard himself say, “I don’t know.” Words came crowding into his head, demanding to be spoken. “If we can't work this out ...”

Spike had confused look on his face. “You're giving me an ultimatum?”

“No, I'm not,” Riley said gritting his teeth as he fought for control. “But if I said, ‘I'm leaving tonight, with or without you’? _**I’m not going to –” **_

Riley jerked his head as though he were tearing meat off a bone. “But … if I did?” This last came out as a whispered plea. He gripped Spike’s arm urgently.

Spike tried to shake him off, mumbling, “Let go of me.”

“Or what? You'll hit me?”

Riley knew straight off that this didn’t make any sense; Spike couldn’t hit him, not to hurt him – but his vocal chords had a will of their own. He didn’t know where this was coming from. It felt like he was being yanked around on strings.

“You takin’ the piss?”

Spike’s recalcitrant tone of voice and uncomprehending stare got to him; as well as confused, Riley was angry again: way more angry than the situation warranted, but there was nothing he could do about it.

“Go ahead!” he said. “Come on! Do it!”

Spike just shook his head and tried to push past him. “Get out of my way.”

Wild-eyed, Riley shouted, “I'm serious, Buffy, hit me. Hit me.”

Spike’s head whipped around. “Did you just call me ‘Buffy’?” He snapped his fingers in front of Riley’s face. “That’s supposed to be my obsession, remember?”

Riley shook his head and took a big gulp of air. “Yeah, I ... I dunno what happened there.” He pressed his fists against his eyes. “See? That was what I was saying – about weird shit happening. It’s getting worse. Feels like I’m getting caught up in it – being used as some kind of conduit. Maybe it’s the start of this mega-apocalypse Wesley’s been researching. I hope not.” He took a deep breath. “What our hill-of-beans could possibly have to do with it I don’t know, but Spike …” He looked searchingly at his partner: “I still need an answer.”

“To what?” Spike said warily.

Riley was almost afraid to ask again, now he was back in control, but he had to.

“Would you go with me, or stay here with _him_ – if it _was_ an ultimatum?” Riley said, adding hastily: “Which it isn’t.”

“I … I’d go with you … of course.” Spike looked chastened. “But Riley, Angel’s the best one to –”

That lit the fuse, and Riley flashed out like a rocket. “Yeah, _Angel’_s the best at everything isn’t he? Maybe I should try and be more like _Angel_. What kind of car does he drive, Spike?”

This time, the ideas finding voice – spilling out without permission – were ones that had been living in Riley’s head for days, eating away at his confidence.

“Maybe I should get the kind of car _Angel_ drives, and buy you a hotel to live in! Or – wait! I get it! You’ve already tried to get me wearing his clothes. Maybe I should get a coat like his –”

“Those are my lines …” Spike said vaguely. “Hey, is it happening again?”

Riley saw Spike looking up into his face, like he was trying to see inside his head. “What’s wrong with you Riley?”

“You tell _me._ Guess my real problem is that I’m not Angel.”

“No, you’re not Angel – never will be,” Spike said bluntly.

Riley blanched. Spike was meeting this thing head on at last. At least it was honest.

“Angel and me, we’ve been around a long time. Got a century and more of rivalry. Of wanting each other dead. Of wanting each other’s women, more than one occasion of just wanting each other, I’ll admit that.”

Spike’s towel had slipped down around his hips; he pulled it a little tighter again.

“But that’s past. I can’t change it – can’t make him disappear. Wouldn’t be here now if it wasn’t for him. Can’t just forget it all happened.”

“Why the hell not? I can barely even remember the name of the last girl I dated. You – you’re all I think about. Dream about. You're in my gut ... my throat ... I'm drowning in you.”

Riley batted the air beside his ear, where the words seemed to buzz like angry mosquitoes. Spike was looking at him strangely. Maybe it was happening again, but he didn’t care any more. He wanted to get this out. “Why _can’t_ you just forget about Angel?”

“You want me to forget about Angel,” Spike said flatly, as though Riley had asked him to forget his own name

“Yeah, why’s that so hard?” Riley fixed him with a stare he wished could burn the memory of Angel from Spike’s mind. “Forget him.”

“Make me.” Spike said, suddenly obstinate.

“You want me to _make_ you forget Angel?” Riley demanded, poking him in the chest.

“If you can, yeah!” Spike pushed past him into the bedroom, then turned to face him. “Show me what you got, White-bread.” He leered provocatively.

Glaring, Riley advanced on Spike, shoving him backwards, and Spike pushed back, just hard enough to really rile him. He took Spike by the shoulders and tried to kiss him, but Spike turned his head away, so Riley gripped his face and crushed their lips together, ignoring Spike’s attempt to hold him off, invading his mouth. When he was done, he pushed Spike away, and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

Stubbornly silent, Spike stared at him; let Riley walk him backwards until his legs hit the bed, and he sat down. Riley looked down at Spike where he sat, passive, his hands in his lap, refusing to make eye contact, or even speak. He took Spike’s chin in his hand, forcing his head up, and saw only a sullen mask, the eyes looking straight through him.

If only Spike would ask him – tell him, beg or order him – to stop …

But he didn’t.

The hungry void yawned between them.

“Is this how it was with Angel, Spike?” Riley said miserably. “Bet you really like getting pushed around like this. Probably think I’m just a big sap because I don’t do it like he does, huh?”

Spike’s determined stare faltered for an instant. “What’s it _to_ you?” His voice wavered. “What if I do?”

For an answer, Riley pushed Spike onto his back; ignoring Spike’s grunt of surprise he ripped the towel away and climbed on top of him. And now Riley hardly knew who he was any more; he felt like he was dissolving into utter insignificance; and when he looked around – for a brief instant – it seemed they were in a crypt, on a bed of hard grey stone.

Taking his weight on his arms, he looked down on Spike, demanding heatedly, “Tell me you love me.”

Spike’s features immediately softened. “I love you. You know I do.”

“Tell me you want me.”

If Spike denied it, Riley thought he might cease to exist.

“I always want you. In point of fact –”

But now there was a roaring in Riley’s ears; a white noise, nearly driving him insane, and all he could hear was Spike’s voice saying Angel’s name, or one of the many ridiculous nicknames he had for him: ‘Peaches’; ‘Old Man’; ‘Brooding Avenger’; nicknames that meant affection. Spike had never made up any nicknames for _him_. He was just Riley, always Riley: until tonight, when Spike had called him ‘White-bread.’

That wasn’t affectionate at all.

And somewhere in the back of his mind he could hear Spike, naming him ‘Captain Cardboard.’ Well fuck him. He’d show Spike how white he was – what he was made of. He gripped Spike’s half-erect cock in his fist, demanding, “Who’s this for Spike? Me or Angel?”

Spike answered straight away, “You, Riley.”

But it didn’t mean a damn thing, because as he’d spoken Angel’s name, Riley felt Spike stiffen. He whipped his hand away, looking from his hand to Spike’s cock as though both had betrayed him.

“Liar!” Riley was vibrating like a tuning fork. “You’re a liar, Spike! But your dick doesn’t lie, so why should you? Tell me the truth – tell me it’s Angel you want.”

“I can't,” Spike said simply. “I love _you_.”

“No, you don’t,” Riley insisted, his eyes blazing.

“Why are you doing this to yourself?” Spike’s earlier obstinacy had fled, its place now taken by concern.

But it was too little, too late. “Maybe you want me to fuck you the way _Angel_ did. How did he do it, Spike, did he loosen you up, even a little? I bet he didn’t. Bet he didn’t even bother with lube – just went straight in dry – is that right, Spike? Is that how you want it?”

Spike swallowed and said quietly, “You know the answer.”

Riley knew he should feel bad about this, and somewhere – light years away – he did feel bad, but here and now, he barely knew what he was saying; what he was doing; just that everything was royally fucked-up.

“I’ll bet he’s bigger than me too – under those expensive pants of his – that’s it ain’t it? That’s your problem.” He heard his voice deepen and crack as he dashed blinding tears of rage from his face. “Bet you can’t even feel _me_ inside you. But you’re going to, by God.”

And Spike offered no resistance as Riley pushed and heaved Spike’s legs up over his shoulders; as he positioned himself – his cock; as he looked down at himself and at the ring of muscle he was about to invade; as he tried to surge forward and force an entry, though it wasn’t being denied him.

Spike was paler than ever, and taking gasping breaths, trying to make this go easier; Riley knew he was hurting Spike, and – hard as he was – it was almost impossibly painful for him as well, and for an instant there was nothing around him but shining white surfaces.

“Let yourself feel it ...”

Spike bit his lip but failed to stifle the word that was trying to be spoken: “No ...”

But Riley just set about it with more ferocity, gripping Spike’s thighs with bruising pressure, and using his weight to spread Spike wider; hold him down harder …

“You _love_ me ...” Riley grunted as he breached Spike, ramming home at last. “_Let_ it … _go_ ... _Let_ yourself … _love_ me ...”

“Fuck, Riley, I _do.** I do love you.**_”

Spike’s words sounded as though they were being spoken through treacle.

“You'll feel it again, Spike ... I'm gonna make you feel it ...”

“Come on, that's it, put it on me,” Spike choked out. “Put it all on me.”

From a long way away Riley said, “Am I dark enough for you now?”

~~

_There’s something wrong with my books. The words are melting – forming shapes, pictures: ridiculous, unbelievable pictures, overlaying each other in a bizarre, living, breathing palimpsest._

I’m talking to a hamburger.

How utterly absurd! As if one could believe anything told to us by a fast food company ...

That woman – the stranger who haunts my dreams with her dead eyes and dying heart – is cutting my throat.

Why would a stranger cut my throat?

I hear a baby crying.

And then there’s Lilah.

_   
**Lilah?**   
_

She barely notices my existence, but here she is, in her rather fetching undergarments, and – more astonishingly – in my bed.

I haven’t shaved for some time, yet she makes no complaint about the stubble-burn I leave on her thighs.

And now this again: a pillow pressed over my face. I can’t breathe. Angel, please …

I wanted to die fighting at your side, not by your hand.

Professionals in hospital garb drag him away; I rather wish they hadn’t.

But I have a chance – I can try to make it up to him, whatever I’ve taken, whatever I’ve done. Because he needs me; needs my blood. I feel him draw the life from me, and have to hold myself in check.

I close my eyes.

When I open them, my vision is blurred from loss of vital fluids, but I see that there are words upon the page once more, though I don’t recognise the typeface. ‘Bloody scrawl’ isn’t on the drop-down menu. Now I can read it:

‘The Father will Kill the Son.’

Angel referred to …

Is Angel going to kill Spike?

The thought is oddly disturbing. Despite my misgivings, I was quite taken with the young man. Poor Riley will be devastated.

Why, I wonder, would Angel do such a thing? In his already unbalanced state of mind, this act might prove disastrous; might even be the event that brings about the apocalypse.

Fearing the worst, I splash cold water on my face and grab my coat and keys.

~~

_This ‘weird shit’ Riley was on about is getting weirder by the second. Thought he needed to get this nonsense about Angel out of his system. With hindsight, turning his crank on purpose might not have been one of my more cunning plans. _

He’s mad at me, feverish – pouring with sweat – and his eyes are wide and staring. Didn’t reckon on flipping him out completely; but it looks like he wants to take me apart piece by piece.

Doing a pretty good job of it too.

Nothing we say seems to be making much sense. It’s like we’re reciting lines we learned for a play; no curtain went up, but the words are still waiting in the wings, demanding entrance: determined to strut and fret their hour, and make us their fools.

And now I think I know what this is. An alternate reality – maybe more than one – is trying to push its way into our own. I guess the upset and whatall – strong emotions flying around – must have weakened the walls between timelines; and my pig-headedness has given it a jump-start.

Not good.

His shoulders pin my knees up, and wide apart; I’m split like firewood under his axe, ready to burn for him, but I don’t think it’s me that he sees; his wild eyes look right through me. He’s grunting something at me; it’s hard to think when I see that look of scorn on his face, so I just mouth the words along with him; don’t know how, but I know them already: “You love me ...”

And it hurts. Not just the pain of the dry entry: that’s no picnic – never was – and as he rams it home, putting it to me like he’s paid for it, I feel a trickle of blood.

But his words don’t match his actions. “Let it go ...” – he’s almost begging – “Let yourself love me ...”

And I feel for him; got to reach him. “Fuck, Riley, I _do. ** I do love you.**_”

He doesn’t hear me.

“You'll feel it again, Spike ... I'm gonna make you feel it ...”

For a moment, everything around me is white and bright and painful.

Fuck, what have I done?

There’s a burning in my chest: the light of a thousand screams.

Then Riley’s above me again: an angel with a flaming sword.

It’s my fault he’s like this; shouldn’t have acted up the way I did.

“Come on, that's it,” I say. “Put it on me. Put it all on me.”

A fist smashes into my face, and I’m sent sprawling in an alley. It’s one I’ve seen before, and once again, Buffy – the dead-eyed, broken Buffy who haunts these visions – is beating the tar out of me, and this time it bloody hurts. I feel every blood vessel as it ruptures; every bone as it shatters.

I’ve slipped right through.

From a long way off, I can still hear Riley; he’s asking, “Am I dark enough for you now?”

I try to hang on to the sound of his voice but …

I’m falling.

I fall and land, fall and land, strobing through different realities, times, dimensions. Sometimes it’s a soft landing, but then I rip straight through like a stone through wet paper. Sometimes it’s hard and then the play lasts longer. Sometimes there’s fire all around me, sometimes water; sometimes desert, sometimes snow.

Is that a unicorn?

Day and night alternate.

It’s night when I come to a jarring halt, on my feet on a narrow metal bridge. A kindly-looking old man is coming towards me. He grabs me, slides a knife between my ribs, and then I’m cast aside. A teenage girl – desperate, trusting and hopeless – calls my name, but already I’m falling again.

A failure.

This time it’s a circular bed that breaks my fall. An insane blonde stares down at me. I smell cheap hairspray and expensive perfume. Her eyes are too far apart. She says, “Maybe there's something on the inside? What do ya know Precious? What can I dig out of you?” Her hand plunges into my guts: excruciating. My scream rips through the fabric and I’m falling again.

Impure.

I’m knocked to the ground in the alley outside the Bronze. Buffy is there, looking all high and mighty. She throws money at me. “You’re beneath me,” she says, and once again my heart is ripped from my chest. Sobbing, I fall again.

Worthless.

And now – the Comfy Chair. I’m in a crypt: my crypt. Never seen it before, but it must be mine; there’s cigarette ends and empty JD bottles lying about the place. Riley slams full-tilt through the door like a man on a mission.

I say, “What took you? Guess it takes a while to get back to full strength after those bites ...”

What? I’ve bitten him – badly enough to hurt him? How?

Maybe in this reality I don’t have a chip …

For just a second, I’m back in our own world.

_Please let me stay._

He yanks my arms above my head, pinning them; won’t let me touch him.

_Yes, do what you want, love – have me any way you want – just let me stay. _

I try to say it, but what comes out is: “Hey! Hey, let's be reasonable about this.”

He slams into me, grunting, “You may have noticed, Spike, I left reasonable about three exits back.”

Then I’m back there, pressed against stone, saying, “Look, I'm not the one who got you into this.”

But that’s not true. I brought him to this; why am I denying it? “Don't kill the messenger.”

The chill of insanity touches his voice, his face. He says, “Why the hell not?”

Shit! He’s holding a stake.

As he pulls back his arm, I murmur, “You always hurt ... the one you love, pet.”

He plunges it into my chest.

~~

_Darla opens to me; and it’s easy – oh so easy – to remember the way we used to fit so perfectly together. _

Her thighs wrap around my waist and she presses her face into my neck, mauling the skin, distracting me while she undoes my pants and rubs herself against me in preparation.

She’s wet already, and I want in.

I’m tired of holding back; so tired of being called a eunuch by a cheerleader with the subtlety of a half-brick to the temple; so fucking tired of feeling no one’s hand on my dick but my own.

Perfect happiness?

I’m never going to get that again – don’t know why I ever thought I could.

I wanna feel something besides the cold.

I lift Darla’s perfect ass, ready to slide home.

~~

_I cry out as the stake penetrates. _

“Ow! Bloody hell! Oh god!”

I’m not dust.

“Hey.”

“Plastic wood-grain. Looks real, doesn't it? Don't think I don't know what's goin' on with you, Spike.”

_I’m still here; still alive, but fuck, I’m still here. Is this it? Am I stuck with this? This life, this crypt, this … us? Riley looks at me with such implacable hatred, it damn near kills me. His contempt for me is so great, I’m not even worth a dusting._

_God, please don’t let it be …_

_If my only choice is this – if I’m trapped here, in this dreadful place where he and I are enemies?_

“Do it for real, Finn. Please.”

~~

_I’m about to slip in to that welcoming darkness when Darla gives out an irritated growl. _

“Tell your pet human to go play with its ball.”

I follow her gaze. Wesley is standing at the end of the alley, a look of devastation – of betrayal – on his face.

Plaintively, he says, “Angel … I’m sorry, I thought … I didn’t mean to intrude.”

My friend – I have so few of them – turns to leave. I can hear his heart contracting painfully, like he’s dying. I can smell salt on the breeze. Wesley?

He’s …

What he feels for me … it’s more than friendship.

Did I know this?

Something Spike said comes back to me: ‘I’m scared of what your Watcher Boy might do to me if we get too close.’

Spike – who I give such scant respect – knew, in that instinctive way he has, but I hadn’t even seen …

What am I, brain-dead?

Who in hell do I think I am?

Couldn’t save Doyle.

I _killed_ Penn – what? Okay, I would have had to do it, but I never even looked for alternatives. Someone misbehaves, and that’s my first and only answer? I kill them?

Drusilla … driven insane and left to her own devices … I know there’s no good answer to the problem of Drusilla, but I haven’t tried – not once.

And I want a _son_ …? Think I can handle the responsibility of bringing up a child? I can’t even see what’s in front of my face. I’m pining over a kid I can’t keep – don’t deserve – when I can’t even take care of the people who already depend on me; need me.

Still selfishly stringing Buffy along: not with her – not really – but not letting her go.

Keep doing it all wrong with Spike; I never thought of him as a son, but maybe I should have. Spike calls me his Sire, even if only in irony. I _am_ responsible.

Wesley … I didn’t know.

And Darla: can I sign her death warrant a second time? Isn’t there a law against that? I can’t let it happen – not that way.

She places her arms either side of my head and moves in to kiss, or maybe bite me, but I push her away and lower her carefully, so that she is standing on her own two feet again.

“We’re not doing this.”

This time, I mean it.

I feel my ears pop.

Some small but important piece – some cog – clicks back into place.

My head clears.

Though my pressing physical needs will have to wait – again – I feel better than I have in days.

I’m going to do better.

Be better.

As I tuck myself back in with hands that shake just a little, I call out to Wesley, “Wait! Just wait a moment please, Wes.”

He obeys me: as always.

I turn to Darla. She’s beautiful; and deadly; and very, very annoyed. She looks at me with contempt, and as if she knows, before she even hears it, that the answer will bore her, asks me flatly: “Why?”

“Because it’s wrong?” I have the grace to look apologetic.

She rolls her eyes.

I say, “I guess this is the part where I tell you to get out of town, because the next time I see you, I’ll have to kill you …” If she carries on like that, they’re going to roll right out of their sockets … “But frankly, I think that speech can wait till tomorrow. It’s a little clichéd, and I could really use a drink right now. How about you?”

Darla smoothes her dress back into place and massages her temples. “Yeah, me too.” She is puzzled and frustrated, but also – it seems to me – a little relieved.

I knew motherhood wasn’t for her: not really.

Wesley takes a tentative step towards us. “Are you …? Is Spike …?

“Spike’s inside – with Riley. They were just … you know.”

Wesley sags. I’m not sure why.

“But you – you look terrible Wes. I guess holidays don’t agree with you.”

“Indeed. I don’t suppose you’d like me to –”

“Come for a drink with us? Please, yes. I’m buying, so there’s no danger you’ll have a hangover when you come into work tomorrow.”

“Oh … Oh!” Wesley’s face shines.

I feel suddenly full of love for all my people. That’s what home is: not the hotel, but my people. I’m gonna pay more attention from now on – take better care of all of them.

I sling one arm around Darla’s waist. She tries to squirm away but then submits, moulding herself companionably to me for one last time. I put the other around Wesley’s shoulders.

It feels just right there.

“‘Caritas’?”

~~

“Do it for real, Finn. Please.”

Riley froze in mid-thrust, fear and denial warring in his brain. He jerked his arm back, but there was no stake in his fist.

Beneath him, Spike: slack-jawed, trying to choke back whimpers of pain, his pupils wide and black as he waited for a killing blow, or whatever else Riley cared to visit upon him.

Cracked open.

Riley started to come. He jerked back and pulled out, and Spike yelped, and Riley was still coming as he stumbled backwards from the bed, gasping, “What am I ...? What was that?”

He raised his empty right hand, holding himself with his left, trying to hide his …

“Spike, my God, I didn't -”

~~

“You staked me.”

Spike’s damning statement was at odds with the wonder and relief that washed over him, as the crypt snapped out of view, replaced by his room at the Hyperion.

Shocked and shaking his head, Riley edged further away from the bed, “I didn’t …”

“Is this us?” Spike said. Feeling like he’d just woken from a bad dream, he blinked at Riley, and gingerly lowered one leg at a time, pressing his hand on the mattress – checking it was solid. When he was convinced, he swung his feet over the side of the bed and placed them flat on the floor. “Are we back now?”

“Jeez I hope so. Fuck, Spike I’m so … sorry I –” Riley looked down and what he saw made him retch. “Oh God …” He turned pale.

Spike pushed himself uncertainly to his feet and made his way to where Riley stood, swaying, looking down at his hand; at his softening cock, smeared with his own spunk and with Spike’s blood.

From a devastated place, Riley murmured, “I’m a ra-”

“No!” Spike put a finger to Riley’s lips. “Shhh. You’re not. Don’t say that word.” He tried to wrap his arms around Riley but felt him shrink away. “Didn’t try and stop you, did I?”

“You said ‘no’.” Riley’s voice was grey. “I heard you and I still –”

“Wasn’t me,” Spike said, certain of that, at least. “Wasn’t me, and it wasn’t you. You didn’t mean none of it.” Spike’s heart still craved reassurance. “I’m right aren’t I?”

Riley shook his head. “Didn’t mean to ...”

“See? No more’n I did.” As far as Spike was concerned, the matter was settled. He reached for the cigarettes on his nightstand and looked at Riley. “D’you mind if I –”

“Spike, after what I just …” Riley turned his back, unable to look Spike in the face. “Sorry can’t make it better … it’s not enough – I can’t …” He scythed a hand through the air. “I’d better leave.”

As Riley reached for his pants, Spike moved with a speed born of panic; snatched them away and held them behind his back.

“No! Don’t go!” Spike backed away, holding the fatigues at arm’s length behind him. “You can’t go!”

Riley tried a flanking manoeuvre to edge his way around and behind Spike, but Spike was too quick for him.

“Please, Spike, give me my pants.”

“No!” The logic of desperation came to Spike’s aid. “You can’t wear them, they need washing. Said so yourself.” He pursed his lips, defying Riley to get out of that one if he could.

Riley’s brow creased. He held out a hand in supplication, still covering his privates with the other. He looked like he might burst into tears. “I _need_ them.”

The pleading note in his voice nearly made Spike relent. Distracted, he let Riley get too close. Riley dodged around him and managed to snatch a trailing pants leg.

Riley pulled, and Spike pulled back: a ludicrous tug-of-war – determined and silent – with neither party quite able to look the other in the eye. If they did, they’d either cry or laugh or kill each other, and both were afraid to find out which.

Finally Spike hauled himself along the disputed territory of Riley’s pants until they were face to face, and shoved Riley against the wall, crushing their lips together, forcing him to submit – kiss back or hurt him.

And Spike was willing to bet that Riley didn’t want to do_ that:_ not ever again.

When Riley needed to breathe, Spike peeled himself off and released his grip just enough that he could stand back and look Riley in the eye. “You gonna try and do a runner on me again?”

Gulping, Riley shook his head.

“Promise?” Spike said sternly.

Riley just nodded.

Spike drew Riley’s head down towards his own, and pressed a kiss on his brow. “In case you doubt it, that’s me forgiving you – for whatever you think you’ve done. Okay?”

Riley nodded again, biting his lip.

“You forgive me too?” Spike said, looking at him intently.

“Spike, there’s nothing to –”

“_Please_, Riley.”

“Of course.”

“Sit down then, and listen to me.”

Meekly, Riley sat on the edge of the bed and listened.

“You weren’t in control. Neither was I. What I figure is, outside forces were messing with us.” Spike sat down next to him, lit up and took a drag.

“Like you said before – something weird’s going on. Reality’s shifting around, and it seems to me as how strong emotion makes it worse. Lets some idiot-evil-twin-parallel-universe versions of us take over. Here –” He held out his cigarette to Riley. “Steady your nerves.”

Warily, Riley accepted it with his right hand and took a drag. He coughed and handed it back. “Thanks – I think.”

“So, one thing we really _have_ to do is stay calm,” Spike said. “I think we’ll be okay as long as we don’t let it draw us in. And we need to check in with Wesley – see if he can sort this out. Okay?”

“Okay,” Riley agreed.

Spike was fairly sure Riley would have agreed to use a porcupine as a pillow if he’d asked it of him right now, but still …

“Must’ve made you madder’n I bargained,” Spike said ruefully.

“You … what?” Riley was dumbfounded. “You did that on purpose?”

“Well, I didn’t make reality go wonky … can’t take credit for that. But I did start playing up.” He broke gazes with Riley. “When you started on about Angel. I think that’s when it all went pear-shaped.”

Riley shook his head. “I know there’s no excuse for what I did, but please, I’m begging you, don’t ever do that to me again Spike. Please. You know me. Know just what buttons to press, and you pressed ’em, hard. I hate myself so much when I lose control.”

“Yeah, well. Didn’t expect things to get so crazy. Just thought you needed to get it off your chest – take back what’s yours.” Spike took another pensive drag on his cigarette, and blew out a plume of smoke. “Maybe I needed you to an’ all,” he admitted. “But you’re too much of a gentleman.”

“Don’t feel like one.” Riley cast his eyes down, but once again had to squeeze them tight shut in denial. His mouth made a miserable shape.

“Yeah, you are,” Spike insisted, putting a hand on his shoulder. “You know you are. Tonight was just – wasn’t all your doing, hardly any of it.”

“Maybe,” Riley conceded, reluctant to let himself off the hook.

Spike handed him the cigarette once more. As their hands touched, a brief false memory flashed through his mind, of Riley holding him in the sun, letting him burn just a little. So he didn’t deny it when Riley added softly, “But there’s a darkness in me …”

Spike knew that kind of darkness. Maybe he needed some monster in his man.

“As for what made you so mad …” Spike was almost afraid to say the name in case it set things off again, but it had to be done: “Angel,” he said carefully.

Riley flinched, but nodded.

“Can’t lie to you Riley. Can’t say that Angel means nothing to me. He’s part of what made me who I am. He’s not nothing. But – and I know it doesn’t add up or make sense – never was too good at maths – but you? You’re everything.”

Spike blinked and looked away. There were tears ready to fall, but Riley didn’t need to see that, especially now, so Spike just finished his cigarette and stubbed it out carefully in a saucer, while he collected himself enough to go on.

“Worst thing about that other reality was that we were enemies. I was less to you than the dirt under your heel, and in that world, I deserved it. And I know – really – some of the things I’ve done? It’s what I deserve in this one an’ all. But Riley, I never want to see that look on your face for me again, please. Not ever.”

Riley got down on his knees, bowed his head, and heaved a deep sigh. Then he looked up, and – taking Spike’s right hand and holding it to his own chest – he vowed, “God help me, you never will.”

~~


	9. Caritas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some much-needed R &amp; R, and some explanations.

9: Caritas

“Wanna know what I think?” Spike said, as he offered Riley a hand up. “We need to get out for a bit. Clear our heads. This … er … girl, Harmony – one of Angel’s lot – she said there’s a decent bar down the road …”

Spike gave Riley a hopeful look. “Don’t know about you, but I could murder a pint.”

All things considered, Spike seemed remarkably buoyant, and Riley supposed he should be relieved. He was: kind-of. But it was odd, to say the least.

As for himself: Riley felt like most of his skin had been scraped off. If you’d asked him what he’d thought they would do next, going to a bar would have been way down the list.

He didn’t want to disappoint Spike – any more than he already had – and he’d stoically ignored the nervous blip the ring had sent him when Spike mentioned the girl’s name. She probably had … assets. A guy couldn’t help noticing stuff like that.

But after everything that had happened, drinking alcohol in public didn’t seem like one of Spike’s smarter ideas.

“What kind of bar?” Riley said, stalling for time.

Spike barely moved his lips, and his reply was almost inaudible.

**_“Demon, karaoke?”_** Riley repeated slowly, pronouncing every syllable just to make sure he’d heard right.

“I know, it sounds awful,” Spike said. “But it might be a laugh. I reckon we could do with one of those. C’mon, what d’you say?”

Hadn’t they had enough excitement for one night? Still hoping Spike might think better of it, Riley defined the mission, just to make sure the objectives were clear.

“A laugh and a drink?”

“Yeah. Sound okay?” Spike raised his eyebrows and nodded anxious encouragement.

Karaoke – even without the ‘demon’ part – sounded like a nightmare; but the evening couldn’t get much weirder, and Riley was convinced that after what he’d done, he’d forfeited the right to decide on anything more important than the colour of his socks: possibly for the rest of his life.

He rubbed a hand over his face, then shrugged. “Whatever you want, Spike.”

“Hey …” Spike said, and went to touch Riley’s cheek.

Riley jerked his head back. His heart told him he didn’t deserve to be petted.

But Spike persisted, stroking the line of his jaw. “No damage done – see?” Spike spread his arms wide.

What Riley _could_ see were the scratches and bruises he’d left on Spike’s upper body; and there would be worse elsewhere. But when he tried to look away, he wasn’t permitted.

Spike took Riley’s chin in his hand and stared intently into his eyes. “We’re both still in one piece,” Spike said. “You’re still my guy, yeah?”

Spike’s anxiety, so plain on his face, was crushing; one more thing Riley wished he hadn’t been the cause of. Wanting to apologise again, but not quite trusting his voice, Riley nodded assent.

“C’mon then. Let’s get ourselves cleaned up,” Spike said. “Bags-I go first in the shower – give me time to rustle you up some gear after.”

So: they were showering separately. That, at least, was a relief. If Spike had taken it into his head to get down on his knees to him, even after everything, it would have been more than Riley could take.

~~

Physically, this was small potatoes. Spike had survived much worse before now; got over that incident at the auction house with the stake, in – what – two days? He’d be fine by tomorrow.

Even so, Spike was glad to have some privacy to get cleaned up. Riley’d be bound to upset himself all over again if he got a closer look at what he’d done; poor bloke was distressed enough already, without any visual reminders.

When he’d seen to himself, Spike was careful to wash every trace of blood from the shower cubicle. He pitched the towels with suspicious-looking stains into the laundry basket, turned to leave, then – just to be sure – went back and shoved them right to the bottom of the basket, under some that had been in there already.

Then it was Riley’s turn. They passed each other awkwardly in the bathroom doorway – Riley, still afraid of touching Spike, flattening himself against the door jamb.

Time for some tough love.

“Oi!” Spike said sternly. “We’ll have no more of this shrinking violet crap. I’m movin’ on – you coming with me, or what?”

Riley nodded hastily. “I’m … I’m there … few paces behind, but I’ll catch up.” He carefully placed a hand on Spike’s waist for a moment. “Just … don’t go without me, okay?”

Spike relented: “’Course not.”

Looking mightily relieved, Riley got into the shower, and turned on the water.

That gave Spike the opportunity to slip out and raid Angel’s suite. He managed to find several unworn items in the vast wardrobe; some of them still had the price-tag on. Spike grinned. So: Angel went to the sales; might have known – stingy git. Shaking his head at himself for being surprised, Spike brought a selection back to his room.

When Riley emerged from the bathroom, he looked at the clothes on the bed as though they might bite him. Then he poked gingerly at them, until he had picked out the most un-Angel-like stuff to put on for their excursion.

Realising that Riley still wasn’t completely on board with the plan of action, Spike said, “We’ll just poke our heads in. Have one drink, yeah?”

Riley flicked a damp lock of hair from his face. “Yeah, okay. One drink. I can do that.” His face crumpled slightly. “But Spike, you won’t tell –”

“Hey! Give me a bit of credit, mate!” Spike protested. “I didn’t exactly cover myself in glory tonight, myself.”

Riley opened his mouth, but Spike put a finger to Riley’s lips. “There probably won’t be anyone there we know,” he said. “And even if there is, I promise won’t tell _anyone_ about your evil twin staking me with a plastic knick-knack.”

Spike skated round the raw place they’d been to. Everything that needed to be said – well, nothing needed to be said, actually. They’d both been lost for a while – Riley more than himself – and Riley was still suffering for it. Just have to keep him occupied for a bit. Let the dust settle.

Not literally.

Spike patted himself down, checking he had everything. He retrieved a hipflask from where it was secreted about his person, took a swig from it, then offered it to Riley. “Dutch courage,” he said.

“Dutch, French, Chinese. I’ll take any kind that’s going around,” Riley said. He took a hit, wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and passed the flask back, then impulsively grasped Spike’s other hand and pressed his lips to it.

Spike touched the knuckles to Riley’s cheekbone. “C’mon,” he said. “Buck up, we’re okay.”

“Yeah. We’re fine.” Riley made a brave effort to smile. “We’ll be fine.”

~~

On the way out of the back entrance, they met Harmony and Genevieve just coming in. Harmony was supporting – half-dragging – Genevieve, who looked completely out of it.

“What happened?” Spike demanded. “You let someone spike her drink?”

“No!” Harmony said indignantly. “Do I look like an idiot?”

Spike raised his eyebrows, and mumbled, “Takin’ the Fifth.”

“Hey!” Harmony gave him a friendly thwack on the arm. “It was just really weird – oh!” Having noticed Riley standing there, she went instantly into simper-mode, almost letting Genevieve slide out of her grasp in the process of trying to draw attention to her own cleavage.

Spike snorted, only mildly appalled.

“Hello again,” Harmony said, heaving Genevieve up a little higher so that she had a hand free to offer in greeting.

Riley frowned. “Er … Hi?”

“We met last year, UC Sunnydale. You threatened to stake me, remember?”

“Oh. Yeah.” Riley twitched. “Sorry about that – trying to give it up. And, I’m sorry I didn’t recognise you. I wasn’t expecting to see you in LA. I guess you kept your word to stay off the campus.”

“Of course!”

“So, cut to the chase _Harm,_” Spike said pointedly. “What’s wrong with Gen here?”

“Something really weird happened, Blondie Bear –”

“’Blondie Bear’?” Riley said, cringing.

“Ooops.” Harmony clapped a hand over her mouth. “Just my little nickname for Spike,” she said with an apologetic glance at the bear in question. “We kind-of, had a thing …”

Spike’s eyes widened. “_Before_ I met you, Riley” he said, glaring at Harmony, and taking a firm hold on Riley’s arm.

Riley squinted at Harmony, evidently having trouble coming to come to terms with the unlikely pairing.

“He was on the rebound,” Harmony added hastily.

“The balance of my mind was disturbed,” Spike attested.

Harmony nodded vigorously. “It was only a small thing,” she said, then winced at Spike’s look of masculine outrage.

“A very _brief_ thing!” Spike corrected her.

“Hardly a thing at all …” Harmony tailed off.

Hiding his mouth with his hand, Riley spluttered, “’Blondie Bear’!”

Spike looked at him with a worried frown. “Yeah, okay. Very amusing.”

Riley’s laughter was tinged with hysteria. Still, best not make too much of it.

“Movin’ on –” Spike addressed Harmony. “Something weird eh, Ms Kendall? Lot of it goin’ around.”

“Yes, Mr … Spike.” Harmony adjusted her flimsy tank top and the underlying corsetry before commencing her story.

“We managed to get into this really exclusive nightclub. We’d just got our drinks – hadn’t even taken a sip – when Genie here put her head down on the table and – well, fell asleep I guess. But it was so sudden, it was like someone had switched her off! Like, she wasn’t in there any more. Then before I could think what to do, I started having this hallucination. It was awful!” Harmony clapped a hand to her bosom. “I’d had some crazy idea of taking Buffy on! The Slayer! As if! Buffy was chasing me all over Sunnydale –”

“And she didn’t catch you?” Spike said, incredulous. “How come?”

“Well, you were there and –” Harmony glanced at Riley, and went on, rather too emphatically, “– and you were being no help at all! No siree! And all my minions – did I mention I had minions? – they all turned on me, the ungrateful dogs! I was nearly killed! Again! Then just when I thought I was done for, I woke up back in the bar, and Genevieve woke up too, all groggy, and started hugging me and telling me how glad she was to see me, and asking if the awful men had gone.”

“Huh!” Spike hunched his shoulders. “Sounds like you got off lightly.”

Harmony shrugged. “Well, Genie’s still only half-there, and we did get thrown out for sleeping in the club. They said we were making the place look boring.”

“Hard to believe,” Spike said. He lifted Genevieve’s chin, and as he looked into her eyes they began to come into focus. “How you doin’ in there, pet?”

Genevieve blinked, at first puzzled, then relieved, then angry. “You weren’t there!” She started battering her small fists ineffectually against Spike’s chest, and between blows, she blurted, “I was back in that awful place … but I was all alone and you weren’t there. The men came and did … you know … and I sent them to sleep like before, but I couldn’t get out, and no one came to rescue me. And I thought getting rescued was a dream and I’d been there all along. And the guards came and found me … there was a stake … then there was nothing, just nothing, forever …”

She stopped hitting Spike and threw her arms around him. With her face pressed against his shoulder she wailed, “What’s happening? Is it gonna happen again? I was scared …”

“S’okay love.” Spike petted her hair. “Same kind of thing happened to us an’ all,” he said. “We were scared too. Reality goin’ on the blink’ll do weird stuff to you. Nothing to be ashamed of. _Whatever happened._”

Spike looked pointedly at Riley. His partner’s alarming sniggering fit had subsided, but he seemed to have been drained of the last of his energy. He looked lost.

“Still, it feels to me like it’s stabilised,” Spike went on. “I haven’t had any more of those … things for a while now. How about you, Finn?”

At Spike’s use of his surname, Riley pulled himself together. He closed his eyes, just breathing slowly for a few moments. “I think you’re right Spike – it’s like, there was a noise I didn’t notice until it was gone, and now it is, I do …” He frowned. “Did that make sense?”

“Perfect sense, mate.” Spike turned to Genevieve. “I’ve got a feeling we’re over the worst, but we’ll have a word with the Brooding Avenger and see if he’s got any clue about what’s goin’ on. If he doesn’t, I’m sure he knows a man who does, okay?”

Genevieve nodded, looking somewhat reassured.

“Right then!” Spike checked his gang.

What he saw made him shake his head sadly. The number was right, but they were hardly the Scourge of Europe; in fact they all looked in piss-poor shape. But no limbs were missing, and none of the un-dead majority seemed ready for the Great Hoover-bag in the Sky, so maybe they should get back to the plan.

He turned to Harmony. “So – wanna show us where that demon bar of yours is, Harm? ‘Caritas’, was it?” Spike grinned. “A bit of that never goes amiss!”

~~

Wesley had been glad of Angel’s bulk separating him from Darla on the way over in the taxi; but now they were here, he was pleasantly surprised to find that he was able to relax among the group of rather anxious demons that crowded the bar.

The place was agog, and Lorne was surrounded by clients of many species, all vying for his attention. His services seemed much in demand tonight.

Though there was fear in the air, there was also a general sense of relief, to which Wesley was by no means immune. Though he wasn’t sure why, it felt as if the weight of the world had been lifted, not just from his shoulders, but Angel’s too.

Angel went to the bar and ordered: absinthe for Darla and scotches for himself and Wesley. Wesley downed his gratefully.

Then Lorne spotted them, called out – “Hey, Angelcakes!” – and began making his way towards them.

For once, Angel didn’t seem too bothered about being so addressed, in public; in fact, he seemed positively convivial, calling out, “Lorne! Good to see you!”

Even Lorne was taken aback. “It is?” He flapped his hands. “Of course it is! And you’re just the guy I’ve been waiting for.”

Angel now looked slightly worried.

“Not _that,_ silly!” Lorne added. “Not that I wouldn’t, but … hmmm … Never mind. It’s just that I’ve had this itch in my horns all evening, and the feeling that only you can scratch it!”

“I’ve been having a problem scratching an itch of my own,” Angel said, frowning.

Lorne patted him on the back. “Well, ‘problem’ is my middle name! Why didn’t you come to me earlier?”

Caught out, Angel looked at his shoes. “I … didn’t think of it.”

Wesley coughed behind his hand. Angel’s confidence in Lorne’s advice was in the region of non-existent.

“I’m hurt!” Lorne said, administering a slap to Angel’s hand. “So I guess that means you owe me. What are you gonna sing for me, Big Guy?”

“Actually, I’m not. We’re just here for a quiet drink.”

Lorne looked at him askance.

Angel shrugged. “Yeah, I know – if I want a quiet drink why go to a demon karaoke bar?”

“You took ’em right out of my mouth, Meatloaf!”

“For the ambience?” Wesley suggested diplomatically.

Angel nodded. “Exactly! But I don’t need a reading Lorne – I already know my path.” Angel downed his whiskey. “Well, I know what it isn’t – and right now? That’s enough.”

“Is that so?” Lorne said, his interest piqued as well as his professional pride. “Someone trying to put me out of business?”

“No, but it doesn’t look like you need have any worries on that score.” Angel indicated the crowd that had trailed behind Lorne from the other side of the room.

“You got a point – but I have a distinct feeling that you guys are right in the eye of this little tsunami in a cocktail glass.”

While Wesley congratulated himself for his restraint, in not pointing out that tsunamis didn’t have eyes, Lorne switched his attention to Darla. “How about you, Sugar? Gonna take a turn at the mike?”

Darla flicked a wisp of hair from in front of her eyes. “Yes, I’ll sing for you. Why not?”

“Fabulous!” Lorne hustled Darla towards the stage, and busied himself finding the track she wanted.

Left alone at the bar with Angel, Wesley glanced nervously at him. “Angel, I didn’t mean to interrupt your … I mean, I know I’ve expressed disapproval of your attempts to contact Darla in the past, but I hope you know that I didn’t show up at that precise moment with the intention of preventing you and Darla from … ‘scratching an itch’, as it were. I only blundered in because I thought you might be about to kill Spike.”

“Kill Spike?” Angel shot him an injured look. “Why would I do that? I only just rescued him.”

“I had another of those … episodes,” Wesley said. “I saw these words – ‘The Father Will Kill the Son’ – and you said earlier on that you’d thought of Spike as –”

“My son. Yes, I remember. I saw it too, Wes – the same phrase. But that was nothing to do with Spike.” Angel scrutinised the contents of his glass. “Take my word for it.”

“Oh … May one ask –”

“No,” Angel said. “Sorry, but I’d prefer to keep it to myself. You know the choice you mentioned? The important one? I think I just made it, and I’m hoping I made it right. But it was a tough call – really tough. I can’t talk about it.” Carefully, Angel put his glass down on the bar. “It’s done.”

“I hope I didn’t –”

“No,” Angel said abruptly. “It wasn’t anything to do with you, Wesley. It was my decision, my responsibility alone.”

To Wesley’s mind, though this was clearly a significant burden, Angel looked more serene than he had ever seen him before.

Lorne tapped the microphone. “Ladies and Gentle-things – well, you’d better be gentle in this bar! – I’d like to present a first-time songbird – Darla.”

There was loud applause, as well as hoots, grunts and wolf-whistles, but this soon died down as – seated in a pool of light – Darla began to sing.

_“Mad about the boy  
I know it's stupid to be mad about the boy  
I'm so ashamed of it but must admit the sleepless nights I've had  
About the boy …”_

It poured out like cream, pure and seductive, and it occurred to Wesley that Angel should to be tied to the mast, before being allowed to hear such a voice. But then, perhaps those rocks and shoals were already in his wake.

As he looked at Darla’s eyes, bright with unshed tears, Wesley’s heart clenched. He couldn’t help marvelling that a 400 year-old vampire could still summon such depth of emotion. But then, he didn’t seem to be losing his ability to be hurt as he grew older, so why should Darla? Maybe the passing years just stripped away your defences, rather than making them stronger.

He glanced at Angel and saw that his eyes, too, were shining suspiciously. Wesley had the feeling that this song was affecting these two old lovers for completely different reasons, but uniting them – perhaps for the last time – in grief.

_“Lord knows I'm not a fool girl  
I really shouldn't care  
Lord knows I'm not a school girl  
In the fury of her first affair …”_

~~

Lorne, too, was transfixed. But the expression of rapture on his face quickly dissipated when Lindsey MacDonald pushed his way between the tables and chairs – drawing various indescribable noises of protest from those in his path – and strode up to him.

Stopping a few inches from Lorne’s face, Lindsey demanded. “Why? Was I so bad? Jeez! I thought you liked my singing!”

“Easy cowboy,” Lorne said, peering over the top of Lindsey’s head. “Who set your horse on fire?”

“You did!”

“Now why in all that’s whacky would I do a thing like that?” Lorne said, still trying to concentrate on Darla.

“You … of all people –” Lindsey pointed an accusatory finger at Lorne. “You shot me!”

That got Lorne’s attention. “Shot you?” Lindsey might just as well have accused him of getting out of bed before noon.

“With what? My pinky?” Lorne waved the digit dismissively. “I don’t even own a gun, Cherry Pie, they make me squeamish.” He turned pointedly back towards the stage and Lindsey followed his gaze.

“Darla?” Lindsey said softly.

But Darla didn’t even notice Lindsey, so intent was she on Angel.

“Fuck!” Lindsey muttered.

“Hey!” Lorne smacked his hand. “You got some objection to this rather lovely songbird?”

“Not at all. It’s who she’s singin’ to that I can’t stomach,” Lindsey said bluntly.

Lorne pulled on Lindsey’s sleeve. “Come on then. Tell me more about my newly acquired competence with firearms.”

Lindsey turned back to him, still seething. “I saw it – clearly as I see you now. I’d just killed a bunch of demons – for him!” He swivelled and pointed at Angel. “God knows why! And you! You were supposed to be backing me up, but when the job was done, you turned on me. Shot me.”

“And then you woke up in bed?” Lorne suggested urbanely. “Let me tell you, Kiddo, there’s these things called dreams –”

“It wasn’t a dream. I was wide awake. It … must have been a premonition. No! Wait! I had a real living hand when you …” Lindsey shook his head, frowning. “What’s goin’ on here Lorne?”

“Can’t help you, unless you sing,” Lorne said.

“How can I?” Lindsey gestured towards Angel with his prosthetic hand. “I’m finished, thanks to that fucker.”

“Last I looked, your voice comes out here.” Lorne pointed to Lindsey’s mouth. “No need to sulk just because you can’t play your instrument. You still have a fine set of vocal chords – use them. I don’t have your music on the sound machine, but some of the finest performers weren’t too proud to sing someone else’s song now and then. How about a bit of Springsteen? Johnny Cash? Tom Petty?”

Lindsey glanced at Darla, who was now aware of him, but pretending otherwise.

“I don’t feel much like singing right now,” he said.

“Then maybe you should shut up.” Lorne suggested acidly. “What do you say, I stand you a shot of bourbon, to make up for shooting you, and you just keep quiet, and let me listen to this?”

Lindsey just turned his back to the stage, his jaw tight.

_“So if I could employ  
A little magic that will finally destroy  
This dream that pains me and enchains me  
But I can't because I'm mad ...  
I'm mad about the boy.” _

The song ended. Darla dipped her head to acknowledge the applause, and Lorne reached up to take her hand as she stepped down.

“My, my!” Lorne enthused. “A true chanteuse! What are you tryin’ to do to me? There’s only so much raw emotion this anagogic demon can take.”

“You asked for it,” she replied smoothly.

Lorne moved to block her path. “That’s not to say I’m not going to cough up a reading for you. It might be a while, but –”

She wafted a hand and pushed past him. “I don’t want a reading – life’s enough of a bore, without having my path sign-posted.”

“Well, well. How refreshing!” Lorne said to her retreating back. He shrugged.

Darla began to make her way to the exit, ignoring Lindsey as completely as he was now ignoring her, but she shot a longing glance at Angel.

Angel looked back, and nodded once.

Then Lindsey caved and went after her. He caught up with her and put a hand on her arm, but she brushed him off. He tried once more. She turned her game-face on him – just for a second, but it was enough. She slipped out of his grasp, and out of the door.

Defeated, Lindsey went back to the bar, and set about completing the task of self-obliteration.

~~

Lilah had been having a most disturbing evening. When she’d left Darla, and gone back to her car to keep watch, she must have fallen asleep. That was the only explanation she could come up with for the illusion that she’d been having sex with Angel’s sidekick – what was his name? Winston? Wiley? No – Wesley.

And that was just wrong.

He’d been much more proficient than she’d imagined he would be, and much more domineering.

Not that she’d imagined him in a sexual capacity at all.

No Siree.

And when did Wesley stop shaving?

She needed a drink; and more than that, she was gripped with a sudden need to _know_ ... would her gamble pay off? Had the apocalypse been salvaged?

There was no way she was going in-house – she’d had enough of those spooky seers, and their double talk.

There was only one thing for it.

~~

As Lilah walked into the bar, the first person – or thing – she recognised was Angel.

He smiled at her.

After the evening she’d had, the last thing she wanted – or expected – was to see Angel, smiling at her. She went straight to the bar and checked the mirror, and wasn’t pleased to find herself looking somewhat – for her – disarranged. She pulled her shirt collar straight, and fixed her lipstick.

Then, in the mirror behind the bar, she spotted Wesley, sitting a few seats further down. She blushed from her roots to her stiletto heels.

To her surprise, the instant their eyes met, she saw Wesley turn a similar shade of pink. He looked quickly away, appearing almost guilty.

For a brief instant, she wondered whether he might in some way be responsible for her strange dream. But no. He didn’t look like someone who dabbled in magic, or had any mental powers.

Annoyingly, he refused to look in her direction again, depriving her of the opportunity to blank him, so she ordered a drink. She always felt more able to cope, with a glass in her hand.

“Pen!” she demanded of Ramon as he began to serve the demon next to her.

A pair of indigo eyes looked at her in disapproval, from an otherwise strangely-featureless pale grey face. “You could say ‘please’ you know. Good manners cost nothing, young lady.”

Lilah snorted. “Please!” she said sarcastically to Ramon.

Well, that was just great. Now she was reduced to accepting advice on etiquette from a nose-deprived monster, that subsisted on old mattresses.

Finally in possession of a writing implement, she scribbled a few words on a coaster and stalked over to where Lorne was sitting.

“Ah! The lovely Lilah Morgan.” Lorne looked her over, with an appraising eye. “What’s ruffled _your_ feathers this evening, Chicken?”

“Thanks for noticing,” she said, thrusting the coaster into his hand. “I take it you can accommodate me?”

“Sure I can. It’s a classic. But –”

“Cut the crap Green-Genes and play the music!”

He cued up her track. “I never argue with a lady,” he said; then he turned and made a face at Ramon.

“Hey!” she said. “I saw that!”

~~

_“You keep playin' where you shouldn't be playin’.  
And you keep thinkin' that you´ll never get burned.  
Ha! I just found me a brand new box of matches, yeah;  
And what he know you ain't had time to learn.” _

Okay, so her rendition might be slightly off-key; at least it was enthusiastic. Lilah managed to keep her attention focussed on Angel for the whole song, and all the while, Angel just carried on smiling amiably at her. It was enough to give a girl the willies. By the time she got near the end, she had a feeling that she’d be needing a very stiff drink indeed.

_“These boots are made for walking, and that's just what they'll do  
One of these days these boots are gonna walk all over you._

_Are you ready boots? Start walkin'!” _

As she returned to her barstool perch, Lilah congratulated herself for having only stumbled once as she left the stage. She drummed her fingers on the bar next to Lorne.

“Well?” she demanded.

Lorne’s earlier attitude of benign indifference had been superseded by one of thinly disguised distaste, bordering on suspicion.

“What?” she said, disturbed by his demeanour.

“Easy there, I’ll tell. But I need some time. Things have been on the strange side this evening. I’ll have to see the whole picture before I can be sure.”

“So I’m going to have to hang around with these losers all evening to get my reading?” Lilah tossed back her drink. “Things just keep getting better!”

“No need to be such a sourpuss,” Lorne snapped. “Believe me, I wouldn’t keep you, but I’ve got a feeling that tonight’s readings are among the few I can’t afford to get wrong.”

“What, you sometimes get things wrong?” For all her cynicism, Lilah was mildly shocked.

“_I_ sometimes get things wrong, but when _you_ mess up, you mess up good!” Lorne said slyly.

“What? What are you saying?” She reached out to grab him, but Lorne slid off his stool and beat a hasty retreat; he was soon lost in the crowd.

“Messed things up have I?” Lilah muttered under her breath. She slammed down her glass and – with a glance, and a quirk of her eyebrow – ordered another drink. “I’m only trying to do my job!”

“And I’m sure you’re doing it to the very best of your abilities, my dear.”

She whipped her head round to check. Yes, it was Holland Manners who had snuck up behind her. It would be nice if people would stop doing that. She perused his unlikely attire – jeans, loafers, and a sweater adorned with a repeating pattern of reindeer and snowmen. He looked like someone’s kindly gay uncle.

“So – you came for a reading?” Lilah asked him.

“No. I prefer to rely on the professionals,” he said. “I’m here for pleasure – not even bothering to network. I just felt drawn to this place tonight. Odd isn’t it?”

“You’re not wrong.” With a slight frown, Lilah looked him up and down once more. “There’s a lot of it going around.”

She waited for him to order, but Holland just stood there, looking at the glass Ramon had put in front of her, so in the end, she was forced to ask, “Can I get you a drink?” She rummaged in her clutch-purse. “Red wine isn’t it?”

Holland looked suddenly pale. “I seem to have gone off wine completely – don’t know why … especially red wine. No, I’ll have a gin and tonic, thanks. But there’s no hurry – I’m going to exercise the old vocal chords first!” He signalled to Lorne that he was ready. “Haven’t done this in a while …”

Lilah’s jaw dropped. Holland, her boss, was getting up on stage. Apparently he’d already chosen his song, because almost at once, the music began to play.

~~

“Curiouser and curiouser,” Wesley murmured, as Holland Manners took to the stage. “Perhaps the Apocalypse is about to begin after all.”

The choice of song was less surprising.

_“Oh the shark has pretty teeth dear  
And he shows them pearly white …”_

“Another one singing to _me,_” Angel muttered to Wesley. “Do I look like I need cheering up or something?”

Wesley put his drink down next to Angel’s. “You must admit, it seems oddly appropriate. ‘Wolfram &amp; Hart sing Frank and Nancy.’ Holland’s better than Lilah – surprisingly good.”

Angel grunted in unwilling assent. “They say the devil has all the best tunes,” he said grimly.

Holland looked disturbingly hip, clicking his fingers to the beat, and tapping his left foot, and Wesley was quite enjoying the rendition of the old standard, when he felt an elbow nudging him in the ribs. This wasn’t Angel’s normal method of communication at all. He shot Angel a look of enquiry.

“Hey, Wes,” Angel said, with a glint in his eye. “Have you noticed how pissed Lilah gets when you smile at her? She hates it!”

“I can’t say I’ve ever had occasion to smile at Lilah,” Wesley admitted.

“Try it!” Angel nudged him again. “Go on, it’s fun!”

Rather bemused, Wesley nevertheless turned towards Lilah and beamed at her. She blushed deep red.

“Looks like she hates _you_ smiling at her even more than me,” Angel said, his pride clearly wounded.

“Indeed!” Wesley said quietly. “Astonishing!”

Both of them continued to smile at Lilah – intermittently giggling like schoolboys – until she took refuge in the powder room, and they had no choice but to turn their attention back to the stage.

_“On the sidewalk Sunday morning  
Lies a body oozing life  
Someone's sneaking 'round the corner  
Is the someone Mack the Knife …”_

Lorne seemed to be watching this one intently, so – his interest piqued – Wesley whispered to Angel, “Will you be alright on your own for a bit?”

Wesley frowned. It seemed a bit silly for a feeble human to be asking a two-hundred-year-old vampire whether he would be alright on his own, in a spell-protected bar.

But Angel didn’t seem to find it ridiculous – in fact he looked rather pleased to have been asked. “Yes, thanks, Wes. I’ll be fine.”

As Holland left the stage, waving Lorne away, Wesley approached The Host. “So, Lorne. I’d be intrigued to hear how your readings are going tonight.”

“You know I can’t go into details, Wes,” Lorne said. “Client confidentiality.”

“You don’t feel there’s something in the air – a general trend ...? Surely you can give me an idea –”

“You know something about this?” Lorne threw him a piercing glance.

“We’ve all been subject to … certain phenomena …”

Wesley allowed Lorne to take him by the upper arm and propel him away from the crowd.

In a low voice, Lorne said, “Well, to be honest – which I always am – I’m finding it hard to unravel. Generally speaking, everyone seems to have two distinct readings, and they’re coming through with different casts – like I’m looking at them through different pairs of Raybans. Trouble is, I’m not all that confident which reading should take priority.”

“Is it possible that the different shades are an indicator of probability?” Wesley asked. “That one future is receding – red-shifted, as it were, while the other – say, a blue-shifted future – takes precedence?”

“Well, I’d say it was more like magenta and cyan, but my eyes are different than yours so I guess that’s possible. I’ve been stalling all evening – not sure what to tell people. I’m convinced that Angel’s the key to it, but he won’t sing. I feel you’re involved too, but …”

“Sorry, but I’m nowhere near drunk enough to sing,” Wesley said firmly. “Not yet, anyway.” Then a thought occurred to him. “I could recite poetry. Would that do?”

Lorne made a face and glanced nervously round his club. “Well, I’d probably catch a vibe off it but it’d kill the evening stone dead.”

“Perhaps if I did it privately?”

“Sure, why not?” Lorne looked relieved. “We can use a booth.”

When they found one that was free, Wesley seated himself and took a small volume from his pocket. The book cracked open at the right page, and Wesley began to speak: rarely having to look down to check the words. For the most part, they were burned into his memory from frequent reading.

_“‘Turning and turning in the widening gyre  
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;  
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;  
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,  
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere  
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;  
The best lack all convictions, while the worst  
Are full of passionate intensity.’” _

“Nothing new there,” Lorne said under his breath.

_“‘Surely some revelation is at hand;  
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.’” _

At this, Lorne’s eyes rolled up in his head; Wesley immediately halted his recitation, and called to Ramon for a glass of water.

Recovering somewhat, Lorne took a sip. “What _is_ this stuff?” he said with a grimace.

Wesley raised an eyebrow. “Are you alright, Lorne? You look a bit green.”

Lorne smiled weakly. “Leave the comedy to the professionals, Fruit-cake.”

“Sorry.”

“And yes, sure – I’ll be fine. Just … give me a moment.”

Wesley waited until Lorne gave him the nod, and then resumed from where he left off.

_“‘The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out  
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi  
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert  
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,  
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,  
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it  
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.  
The darkness drops again; but now I know  
That twenty centuries of stony sleep  
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,  
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,  
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?’” _

Lorne looked greener than ever when Wesley had finished. “‘The road not taken …’” he murmured, swaying slightly.

“Is that good or bad?” Wesley enquired anxiously.

“You couldn’t have chosen something more messianic, Sugar Plum?” Lorne said, regaining some of his composure. “Something a little more pertinent?”

“Ah. Sarcasm,” Wesley said, his smile as thin as old parchment. “Perhaps the choice _was_ somewhat tendentious,” he conceded. “I thought it might bring things into sharper focus, and your reaction tells me that my suspicions were not unfounded.”

“Oh, Wesley, Wesley. You don’t know what you’ve just escaped from …”

“You think I’ve escaped – irrevocably?” Wesley said eagerly. “Because I do have a fair idea of what might have been on the cards. If – somehow, by extreme good fortune – I have escaped that destiny –”

“Jury’s still out, kiddo, but all the signs are hopeful.” Lorne took a sip of the Margarita that Ramon had swiftly substituted for the water. “Though I’d love to know how this happened. Because at one time, it looked like the future was set in stone.”

“Well, we defy augury on a daily basis,” Wesley said wryly. “I see no reason to make an exception for Apocalypses.”

~~

Wesley was just about to make his way back to Angel when he picked out a distinctive accent above the general noise of the bar. It heralded Spike’s arrival, and Spike sounded quite excited about something.

“… and there was this one reality where I was surrounded by all these whiskers and tiny eyes, and hard crunchy bits. Smelled of the sea.”

“It must have been that crazy dimension I heard about,” Harmony piped up as she picked her way down the steps after him. “The one with nothing but shrimp,”

“‘Oh, the shrimp boats is a comin’, there’s dancin’ tonight!’” Spike bawled enthusiastically.

Lorne put his head on one side for a few seconds, and said, “Well, that’s _very interesting ... _”

“Except there weren’t any boats,” Spike said. “Nor any room for dancing. Glad I fell through _that_ one quickly.” He sniffed his sleeve then put it up to Genevieve’s nose, demanding, “Do I smell fishy?”

Riley trailed in behind the rest. He looked disconcerted. Hardly surprising, Wesley thought, assuming this was Riley’s first experience of Karaoke – but Spike noticed Riley’s reticence and drew him closer. They made their way to the bar, their hips and elbows nudging companionably.

It made Wesley’s heart glad to see them together.

“Holy tamole!” Lorne said, staring at the little group. “Who _is_ that hottie?”

“Oh, that’s Spike,” Wesley replied, trying – and failing – to attract the attention of the new arrivals. “William the Bloody. One of Angel’s progeny. I think you’ll like him.”

“The vamp?” Lorne said. “I like _him_ already. Anyone who comes in singing’s okay by me. But it was his friend I was lookin’ at.”

Wesley felt his protective hackles rise. He couldn’t help it. It gave him a warm glow, seeing Spike and Riley together, though his feelings were tinged with both envy of their very obvious attachment, and regret that he’d probably soon be losing his house-guest.

But his anxiety was clearly ridiculous.

It wasn’t at all likely that Riley would be lured away from Spike by Lorne’s dubious charms, especially after all they’d been through. And Lorne would surely realise … but still … best not leave anything to chance.

“Yes, they’re ‘an item’, as they say,” Wesley put in, trying for casual.

Lorne patted Wesley’s arm. “And a very lovely item they are too.”

~~

When he saw Angel standing alone at the other side of the room, Riley nearly turned round and went straight out again, but Spike noticed the cause of his discomfort, and pulled him close.

“Don’t mind _him,_” he muttered.

“I just don’t wanna deal with …” It was hard even getting the name out: “… Angel: not right now.”

“S’okay, we’ll avoid him. Pretend we haven’t seen him. It’s a new place, we can just mingle. Get the feel of things.”

“Okay.”

Riley squared his shoulders and took a deep breath.

This shouldn’t be too hard.

It was just a bar, like any other: full of courting couples; guys trying to score; works outings; a few lonely drunks. As Riley looked around at the assorted demons, it dawned on him that he no longer felt out of place among them.

In fact it was fascinating. Everyone looks different when they’re on a night out, than when they’re flinging themselves from wall to wall of a prison cell, or laid out on a slab. It was hard to tell which kinds he’d seen before and which were new ‘ticks’ to put in his mental Field Guide to the Demons of North America.

He shuddered.

_His_ demon was just hidden, lurking below the surface.

Suddenly he felt naked before them: convinced that they would be able to see what kind of monster he was, and know the sorts of things he’d done. These horned and callused demons at play seemed less monstrous than Maggie Walsh; than some of his former friends; than what he might have become.

Than what he’d been just a short while ago.

“The monsters don’t seem so monstrous these days,” he said.

Spike pulled Riley even closer, so as not to be overheard too easily.

“Don’t forget, most of these guys will have you for dinner any day of the week. Harm said the bar’s got some anti-violence spell on it. This is just a truce – like lions and gazelles at the waterhole.” He frowned. “Except when you leave this watering-hole, the gazelles are just as likely to eat you as the lions.”

_   
**“Hey! Hey!” **   
_

Riley took a step back, hands raised, as a mottled demon suddenly appeared in front of him yelling in his face.

_   
**“You’re that guy!” **   
_

Spike stepped in front of Riley. “Oi!” he said indignantly, holding the demon off. “Pack that in!”

“But _**he’s that guy!”**_ the demon insisted, trying to push past, then putting his face right near Spike’s, peering at him.

Spike jerked backwards and flashed some fang, but the demon was unfazed.

“I think you were there too – and him!” The demon pointed across the room at Angel. “He was definitely the other one who was there –”

Spike snorted in amusement at hearing Angel referred to as ‘the other one’.

“He’s this guy’s sidekick!”

Spike nearly choked.

The demon used the opportunity of Spike’s hilarity to press his suit. “But this guy – he was the star!” He offered Riley his clawed hand.

Gingerly, Riley took a claw and shook it. “Thanks, but I think there’s been a mistake,” he said. “I’m not famous.”

“You are around here, Buddy!”

The demon slapped him on the back; Riley winced as the claws dug in.

“You rescued my brood-mate from those creeps that run the Cleveland operation!”

Riley frowned.

“The auction!” the demon clarified.

“How’d you know about that?” Riley said incredulously. “How’d you recognise me?”

“So it _is_ you! I knew it! However we might look to _you,_ humans don’t all look alike to _us_,” the demon said. “You’re on that bootleg video!”

“Bootleg video?” Spike raised an eyebrow and turned to Riley. “Somethin’ you’re not tellin’ me mate?”

Riley shrugged. So: he’d been wrong; the evening _could_ get weirder after all.

“It was all on the security camera tapes,” the demon explained. “Some genius lifted ’em from that hell-hole and cut ’em together. It’s great! Like one of those indie movies! There’s been copies doin’ the rounds for a couple days now. Great fight scenes! You’re a big goddam freakin’ hero, man!”

The demon turned and yelled out, “Hey! Morgo! Here’s that guy …”

“So … is there someone we can speak to about royalties?” Spike enquired hopefully, of the world in general.

Riley shook his head at Spike’s willingness to make money out of his own trauma. “Getting you back was its own reward,” he said in Spike’s ear, just before he was yanked insistently towards the bar by his new best friend.

Soon, Riley was surrounded by demons, intent on slapping him on the back, buying him drinks, thanking him for rescuing them or their monkey’s uncle’s hamster; even getting his autograph.

Riley wasn’t sure how to take it at all, but the bonhomie and the alcohol soon loosened him up, despite the fact that Spike was no longer at his side. Slightly at sea, he looked around and saw that his partner was watching from a distance, with a look of quiet confidence and a hint of pride. Riley shrugged helplessly and waved, and Spike smiled back reassuringly.

So Riley let the evening carry him along, getting used to his new-found celebrity. Maybe it wouldn’t do any harm to give each other a bit of space for a while.

He was just explaining the various kinds of grenades he’d used for his role in the ‘Cleveland Breakout’ – as his small-screen debut had been titled – when he heard Angel’s voice, enthusiastically booming, “Spike!” across the crowded room. He saw Angel urging Spike to join him, and Spike starting to move out of his own sphere of influence.

It was always possible they were giving each other too much space. Riley patted a few of his admirers on the back and took a hurried leave of them, then trailed anxiously in Spike’s wake.

~~

Having finally succeeded in catching Spike’s eye, Angel made extravagant beckoning motions at him.

“What?” Spike mouthed back at him. He looked a bit alarmed; then he appeared to say, “What have I done now?”

… Which was … surprisingly hurtful; but maybe Angel had just misread Spike’s lips.

Trying again, Angel gesticulated at him more vigorously, putting on the friendliest expression he could manage. Clearly more than a little suspicious, Spike made his way over, and as soon as he was in range, Angel went to him and pulled him into a bear-hug.

“What’s your game?” Spike demanded, trying to push him off. “I’ve got vampire cancer haven’t I?” he said with a look of consternation. “Either that or you’ve gone schizo.”

Angel backed off. Just because he wanted to make changes, didn’t mean the world was ready to let him; he’d have to get used to that.

“No, I just … I never did that. Not really – not like I meant it. I thought it was time I did.”

“Riiight ...” Spike raised his eyebrows. “I hope I’m not in one of those parallel dimensions again.” He pinched himself, and then Angel – hard.

“Ow!”

“Hmm. Seem solid enough,” Spike said. “Been meaning to ask you –”

“Angel.”

Riley appeared at Spike’s elbow. His greeting was somewhat wary, to Angel’s way of thinking. Perhaps Spike had told Riley about the uncalled-for comment he’d made concerning their al fresco activities. Hoping not, Angel offered a slightly embarrassed hand, which Riley shook, seeming equally self-conscious.

Angel looked Riley up and down. The clothes he was wearing looked familiar.

“That’s funny. Those pants are just like some _I _just b– Ow!”

Spike had jabbed him in the ribs.

“What? Why are you –”

A brief frown and head-shake from Spike made him shut his mouth again. He looked away, pretending to have forgotten what he was about to say, and wondering why Spike would mind him pointing out that he and Riley shopped in the same store.

Sometimes a little mystery was a good thing, he supposed.

As though by some silent accord, they all turned towards the stage, where a Glith demon was singing, ‘Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves’ as a tribute to his mother.

When the torture was over, Angel applauded politely and turned to the others once more. “Didn’t expect to see you two here tonight.”

They’d looked like they were set for a late night, but not out on the town.

“Likewise,” Spike replied cagily.

“Yeah, we thought we’d … go out,” Riley added awkwardly. “For a drink. Just one. Or two.”

Riley had very obviously had more than that already. He was looking a little fuzzy round the edges, and very ill-at-ease.

Spike – an arm around Riley’s shoulders – was cleaving to him as though afraid he might float away, and there was a definite vibe of strangeness between them. It made Angel pay closer attention to his senses, and when he did, his good mood began to evaporate.

There was blood in the air: Spike’s blood.

Angel felt his demon rising.

Spike stepped forward, casually blocking him from getting anywhere near Riley, who was already bristling instinctively, getting ready to defend himself.

The air was suddenly thick with it; so much so, that the demons standing nearby began giving ground, in case the non-violence spell broke down. One of Riley’s fans dug a notepad out of his pocket and started offering odds.

Angel tried to circle round Spike; Spike got in his way again, but now, Riley was manoeuvring to close the distance between Angel and himself.

“Easy tiger,” Spike said softly, putting a hand on Riley’s chest.

“Blondie Bear!”

Harmony abruptly burst the expanding balloon of expectant tension as she ploughed into the eye of the gathering storm, flouncing past Angel like he _didn’t_ pay her wages, with Genevieve in tow.

“Blondie _**Bears**_!” Genevieve corrected her, wagging a somewhat drunken finger, and inadvertently poking it up Harmony’s nose. “Oops! Sorry!” she giggled.

“Gross!” Harmony looked pityingly at her squiffy minion, and added imperiously, “But as ever, I grow and move on!” Then she rounded on Spike and Riley – again, ignoring Angel completely.

“You two! You’ve been most rude! You’ve been here for … a whole bunch of time, and you haven’t introduced yourselves to the Host yet! He’s most upset!”

Harmony took Riley firmly by the arm and Genevieve took Spike.

Spike just had time to shoot a look of wry amusement over his shoulder at Angel, before the girls whisked them both away, leaving Angel feeling like he’d been mugged by My Little Pony.

It was almost as though someone had planned it or something.

~~

“Come _on_!”

Having decided to go with the flow, Riley allowed Harmony to drag him towards the bar, which she did with surprising strength.

Oh, yeah.

She was a vampire.

He’d forgotten.

“You must meet Lorne!” she said. “Lorne – Riley. Riley – Lorne.” She bobbed a curtsey.

Riley looked at the horned, green demon drinking a cocktail, and offered his hand, laughing. “‘Bonanza’ fan, huh?”

“Oh, you got that!” Lorne was gratified. “Surprising how few people do – they just think of grass.”

Riley shook his head sadly at the foolishness of the common herd.

“I know. It grieves me too!” Lorne rolled his eyes. “And another thing that grieves me is that I haven’t been introduced to your friend.”

“What, Blondie Bear here?” Riley said indicating Spike with a smirk.

Spike treated him to a hard stare and said dryly, “That’s gonna get old real quick – you do know that, don’t you?”

Riley’s stomach turned over. “Sorry,” he murmured. If there had been a convenient rock nearby he’d have crawled under it.

“Hey. Kidding, mate,” Spike said, giving Riley an apologetic punch on the arm. “‘Blondie Bear’ will do just fine.”

Riley relaxed, and caught Spike’s fist. “I knew that,” he said.

Lorne gave them an appraising glance. “So, I’m dying to hear you sing, Peach Pie! What’s your pleasure?”

It was a while before Riley cottoned on to the fact that _he_ was the one being addressed as ‘Peach Pie’, but he took it in his stride. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “I’ve not got much of a voice – probably sound like a horse.”

“Come on!” Lorne said, then whispered, “Have you heard some of the singing this evening? Doesn’t matter what you sound like.” Then he added at full volume, “My whole evening will be ruined if you don’t oblige me!”

Riley had never sung in public before. But the last thing he wanted to do was ruin the evening for anyone … else – even a green lounge lizard with red horns. Besides, the alcohol had taken away some of his inhibitions. Despite what Spike had told him about the lifestyles of some of the demons in the bar, they almost seemed like old friends already.

Riley squared his shoulders. “Okay. How does this karaoke thing work?”

“Well, you choose a song from this list –” Lorne tapped on the bar repeating, _“This list!” _

While his cocktail shaker was in flight, Ramon slid the book over to Lorne, then caught the shaker with superhuman deftness.

“I play the tune, you look at the screen, and sing the words.” Lorne cocked his head quizzically. “You’re not _from_ this galaxy, are you?”

“I’m from Iowa.”

Lorne grimaced and patted his hand.

~~

As Riley followed Lorne towards the stage, Angel sidled up to Spike and grabbed his arm. “Are you two okay?” he said into Spike’s ear.

“’Course. Why wouldn’t we be?” Spike said. “No thanks to you, by the way. Think the snake must have crawled up your arse and died, back there in the garden.”

“Yeah. Sorry. I wasn’t feeling myself.”

“Well, maybe you should – get rid of some tension,” Spike said, looking at him sidelong.

But Angel wasn’t about to let Spike distract him into childish bickering about masturbation. “Riley. He hurt you didn’t he?”

Spike squinted at him. “I thought you were worried about me hurting Riley, not the other way round.”

“I’m worried about both of you,” Angel said.

And it was true.

“Well don’t be. None of your bleedin’ business mate.”

If nothing else had given it away, Spike’s defensive manner would have told Angel something was off; but despite the fact that they both knew perfectly well that Angel was capable of detecting any injuries – would know their exact extent and location – Spike set his jaw and looked Angel obstinately in the eye.

Okay. Spike had every right to shut him out. Not like he’d ever shown much interest in Spike’s personal life before, except to try and mess with him. Angel said nothing, hoping Spike would feel the need to elaborate, just to break the silence.

Good call.

“We’re fine. It’s been a bit of a rough night, but –”

“He hurt you. And it wasn’t an accident.” Angel was certain of it now. “And you took it! God, doesn’t anything change?”

“Hey! I never … Just don’t go there!” Spike looked at him strangely. “Okay, so he may have … had a moment of weakness. Wasn’t his fault. Probably my fault, truth be told. You know what I’m like sometimes. Bit of inter-dimensional hocus-pocus in the mix – threw the whole bloody evening out of whack. Best keep your beak out of it Grand-dad – it’s Watcher Boy I wanna talk to about it, not you.”

“You can talk to _me_ about it,” Angel insisted, trying to put on an understanding expression, but clearly failing.

“Told you – not your business,” Spike said sulkily.

“I’m making it mine,” Angel muttered.

“Fine, I’m touched, okay?”

The music started up.

“Now just shut up,” Spike hissed. “Reckon I’m about to get serenaded, and that doesn’t happen too often.”

“At least that’s one person not singing at _me_,” Angel remarked.

“Shhh!”

Angel fell silent, as Riley began to sing.

He wasn’t a natural singer. His voice was shaky at first and even Angel could tell he was hitting some bum notes; but Riley wasn’t singing for the crowd. He didn’t take his eyes off Spike the whole time, and Spike’s gaze never wandered from the stage, as Riley put the Neil Diamond classic through its paces.

_“For I've been lonely  
In need of someone  
As though I'd done  
Someone wrong somewhere  
I don't know where  
Come lately …_

_You are the sun  
I am the moon  
You are the words  
I am the tune  
Play me …” _

Lorne came over and whispered something to Spike. Angel didn’t catch what it was, but Spike nodded sagely and gave Lorne’s arm a squeeze, as if they’d known each other for years.

Spike was right about one thing – he did connect to people – better than Angel ever had. But that could change. It was just a matter of trying harder. The least he could do, was to keep a close watch over his immediate … family.

_“Song he sang to me  
Song he brang to me  
Words that rang in me  
Rhyme that sprang from me  
Warmed the night …”_

Angel could hear Spike breathing, and the creaking of the glass in Spike’s hand under the pressure. All eyes in the room were focused on either Spike or Riley, and some of the more sentimental demons were already sniffling openly.

_“And so it was  
That I came to travel  
Upon a road  
That was thorned and narrow  
Another place  
Another grace  
Would save me …”_

Angel tried not to feel envious, but it was hard: seeing Spike like this. He’d never looked so … naked. Riley would be able to hurt Spike in ways he himself had only ever dreamed of; could destroy Spike if he had a mind to. There was no doubting Riley’s sincerity, but this evening there’d been blood between them – not in a good way – and Spike had defended him.

Angel chewed his thumbnail.

_“You are the sun  
I am the moon  
You are the words  
I am the tune  
Play me …”_

Riley finished quite strongly, but received much heartier applause than Angel felt his singing had warranted. What was wrong with this crowd? Was it possible that every one of the many and varied species here present had tin ears?

As Riley went past him, Angel said grudgingly, “They liked you.”

“I don’t think it was my singing they were applauding,” Riley admitted.

Angel didn’t know what that meant – what else they might be cheering him for – but he wasn’t going to say so.

Riley circulated back to where Spike was sitting.

Spike was looking at him with his head on one side.

“I changed the ‘she’s to ‘he’s for you, you got that, right?” Riley asked hopefully.

Spike nodded, speechless.

“Wasn’t that bad was it?”

“Bad?” Spike took a drink. “It was bloody … I mean, no one’s ever …” He swallowed, stared into his glass and went on quietly, “It was amazing … beautiful. But you got it arse-about-face mate.” He looked at Riley. “_You’re_ the sun. You’re a bloody supernova. Never felt such heat in all my life.”

Riley breathed a sigh, smiled, and sat down beside Spike.

Feeling utterly surplus to requirements, Angel went to find a seat on his own.

~~

To Angel’s relief, Lorne closed the bar early, pleading a headache and promising most of his patrons they’d get their readings tomorrow. They straggled out: all but the select few Lorne had asked to remain behind, and Lindsey, who was unconscious, face-down on the bar.

Angel and Wesley balefully regarded Holland and Lilah from the opposite side of the room, while Spike, Riley, Genevieve and Harmony formed an unwitting buffer zone between the entrenched enemy camps. Then Angel remembered his tactic. Not for the first time that evening, he nudged Wesley in the ribs.

Wesley sighed. “A simple word in my ear would have sufficed,” he said, out of the corner of his mouth.

“Sorry,” Angel said. “But keep smiling, remember?”

They both fixed manically pleasant smiles on their faces, and Holland smiled back with equal sincerity. Lilah just shook her head and downed another scotch.

“Guess it’s time for the denouement,” Lorne said, as the door closed behind the last departing customer. “You haven’t all realised it yet, but most of you – all but one in fact – have had a very narrow escape this evening.” He looked at each of them in turn. “Whether you guys from the Dark Side of the fence appreciate it or not – I, for one, am certainly glad of it.”

“Okay. But why the lock-in?” Lilah demanded, tapping her fingers nervously on the stem of her glass. “Did we _have_ to hang around all evening for this?”

Lorne ignored her.

“Now usually, I keep everyone’s readings strictly private – but what I’ve been seeing this evening affects all of us, chickens, so I’m gonna do a quick précis, just to give credit where it’s due. Because most of the time – well, it’s all about Angel, ain’t it?”

Angel didn’t know whether he was supposed to feel pleased or guilty about that. He ended up settling for uncomfortable.

“But not this time,” Lorne assured him. “You’re important – don’t get me wrong, Beefcake. If you’d taken a wrong turn, it would all have been for nothing. But the legwork – the real hard, life-changing stuff – wasn’t done by you at all.”

Angel hunched his shoulders, hoping the focus of attention would soon be someone else.

“It’s been a strange kind of night. I’ve been seeing double all evening – two sets of visions from just about all my clients, and for most, one of the visions is the evil twin of –”

“Evil twin!” Spike broke in triumphantly. “Didn’t I say we had evil twins?” he said, slapping Riley on the chest with the back of his hand.

“Don’t know how we’d tell the difference with you,” Angel grunted good-naturedly.

“Eyeliner,” Riley whispered to Spike, suppressing a tipsy giggle. “The evil one always wears eyeliner.”

“And goes down on you in the shower,” Spike whispered back.

Now was one of those times when Angel wished he _didn’t_ have vampire hearing.

“Children, children!” Lorne admonished them sternly.

When he finally had quiet, he went on, “As I was saying, I’m getting two visions for nearly everyone, but in between the two, I’ve seen fragments of another sequence, and what I see can be characterised like this. A Trickster drops words of wisdom like pearls before swine, but they’re read by a Hero, who gives them back written in gold, and shifts the world on its axis.”

Lilah raised her eyebrows. “Jeez! More riddles!” she complained.

“Not at all!” Lorne said. “The picture has been getting clearer with every person I read, and now I’m confident enough to be quite specific. It’s these two I’ve been seeing.” Lorne indicated Spike and Riley.

They exchanged nervous glances.

“The words fall out of _your_ pocket –” Lorne pointed at Spike: “– in that very coat you’re wearing right now, yes, you, Marilyn.”

Spike shook his head at the outrageous epithet. “Words fall out of my pocket?” he said doubtfully. “I keep all kinds of stuff in my pocket, but –”

“A book, gods love you, a book! It falls out of your pocket, and it ends up in _your_ hands.” Lorne indicated Riley. “You read it, you give it back. And that’s what changes everything – not just for the two of you, but for all of us as well.”

Everyone exchanged puzzled glances. Holland and Lilah clearly thought Lorne insane, and on this occasion, Angel was inclined to agree with them.

Riley said, “I don’t see –” but Lorne held up a hand to quiet him, and looked on him with an expression of sympathy.

“I know you’re not feeling much like a hero right now. You’ve done some things you’re less than proud of –”

Riley froze like a deer in the headlights of an oncoming juggernaut; Spike reached across and put a hand on his arm.

“But don’t beat yourself up about it,” Lorne went on. “You came through. You did the right thing, and reading that book and giving it back to your friend here, was pivotal. The start of something good. Wanna tell me what the book was? Some ancient codex? Philosophical treatise? Religious text?”

Looking somewhat embarrassed, Spike drew the dog-eared paperback out of his pocket, and held it up so that Lorne could see the cover – the primitive yet touching illustration, and the simplistic title, “The Little Prince”.

Lorne raised his eyebrows. “Sweeeet,” he said. “Who hasn’t read that? But I don’t understand how something so commonplace – so naïve – could have been so significant.”

“I think _I_ do, now,” Riley said. “Well, I know why it was significant for me. It made me think. Made me question things I thought I knew – not just because of what was in it, but because a vampire – this vampire –” he looked Spike in the eye: “– this man, was reading it. That blew my concepts about demons out of the water. I don’t know if we’d have made a connection at all if it hadn’t been for that.”

Angel shook his head, uncomprehending. Spike looked torn between trusting in the Host’s discretion, and ripping out the throats of the assembled company – with the single exception of Riley – for peering in through his net curtains.

“So, this is all very nice and interesting, and _**no one else’s business**_ –” Spike said: “– but, us gettin’ together – did what?”

“Well, obviously the earth moved!” Lilah said snidely.

Spike flipped her off.

“Well, it did quite a lot, kiddies,” Lorne said beaming. “There _was _meant to be an apocalypse but –”

Wesley broke in, “It’s been averted – the apocalypse? You’re certain of it?”

“Yes, based on all my readings this evening, I’m happy to announce, that the bi-millenial apocalypse has most definitely been cancelled.”

“Come on!” Angel spluttered. “You’re asking us to believe that these two makin’ out stopped an apocalypse?”

“Well, you and the Slayer makin’ out nearly caused one,” Spike retorted.

“But, how?” Angel said: a little peeved. “How did that affect _my_ part in all this?”

Spike muttered into his glass, “’Cos it’s _all about you …_”

“Well, that’s the question isn’t it, Angel,” Lorne said. “And that’s one thing I can’t tell you, unless you sing!”

“I thought I was the one with the pivotal role –” he said sullenly. “And I’m not singing!”

“Come on Angel,” Lilah called out from her side of the room. “What are you afraid of?”

“We’re the ones that should be afraid if he sings,” Spike said _sotto voce. _

“I heard that!” Angel snapped.

“Meant you to,” Spike said with a smug grin.

“Fine!” Angel stood up and strode towards the stage.

“Lorne – crank up the juke box … thing … And you’d better have what I want because I know exactly what I’m gonna sing.”

“No! Not the Manilow!” Spike called out. “Anything but the Manilow!”

Angel just flashed Spike a dry smile as he went towards the stage.

~~

Under cover of Angel’s – well, singing wasn’t the word for it; crooning? warbling? In any case, under cover of that god-awful sound, Lilah hissed at Holland, “Let me get this straight. Our apocalypse – our _major apocalypse_ – is now delayed, thanks to what? A book? A kid’s book? And by a Frenchman? That’s impossible! There must be some way round it.”

_“Well I don't know why I came here tonight,  
I got the feeling that something ain't right,  
I'm so scared in case I fall off my chair,  
And I'm wondering how I'll get down the stairs …”_

Holland murmured back to her, “Well, I believe The Senior Partners were _warned_ of the dangers of allowing anyone but the priests to learn to read and write. But they got it into their heads – or whatever part of their anatomy they keep their brains in – that it would make the general population more easily controllable. Then one of them invented advertising, and before you knew it, they were all completely sold on the idea. It’s the only reason Gutenberg’s press wasn’t ‘accidentally’ destroyed by fire.”

Lilah digested the information.

“Well, at least the Senior Partners can hardly blame _us_. There’s no way we could be expected to predict it. These two freaks weren’t even on the radar last year …”

Glancing across at William the Bloody, she saw his left hand snake under the table. His companion jerked and bit his lower lip, and his eyes fell closed. She looked away quickly and crossed her legs.

Holland was still talking.

“… assuming we _have_ missed our window of opportunity, the next chance for a vampire with a soul to play a pivotal role in an apocalypse won’t be for another two millennia. It may well be an Aurelian vampire, but I doubt that Angelus will be around to take on the role.”

Holland looked at the stage and smiled, and Angel smiled back. Lilah shivered. Either one of them smiling was bad enough, but both of them at once? _That_ was unsettling.

“Hardly surprising I suppose,” Holland went on, in disgusted tones: out of keeping with his good-humoured expression. “I mean look at him! Pivotal role in the Apocalypse? From what I’ve seen of him tonight, he’d be lucky to play a pivotal role at a teddy bear’s picnic.”

_“Yes I'm stuck in the middle with you,  
And I'm wondering what it is I should do,  
It's so hard to keep this smile from my face,  
Losing control, yeah, I'm all over the place,  
Clowns to the left of me, Jokers to the right,  
Here I am, stuck in the middle with you.” _

Pretending not to notice that Angel had directed his gaze at _her_ during the refrain, Lilah fixed her lipstick. “How about Drusilla?”

“How about her?” Holland said, a note of incredulity in his voice.

It was a long shot, but Lilah made her pitch anyway. “Maybe she could be our new ‘Special Project’?”

Holland patted her confidentially on the shoulder, whispering, “Lilah, I think she might be a little _too_ special, even for us.”

“But what about the Review?” Lilah said, dismayed. “We have to have something positive to tell the Senior Partners.”

“The words ‘sow’s ear’ mean anything to you Lilah? The S.P.s can be stubborn, but they aren’t stupid. Try to bullshit them, you’ll end up serving them coffee out of your own skull before you can blink.” He finished off his gin and tonic and set the glass down. “I know this isn’t my normal line, but sometimes, honesty really is the best policy. They won’t thank us if we persuade them to back a loser.”

_“Well you started out with nothing,  
And you're proud that you're a self made man,  
And your friends, they all come crawlin,  
Slap you on the back and say,  
Please.... Please.....” _

Holland winced at the notes Angel was only just missing. “In fact, when the Senior Partners descend for their Seventy-five Year Review, I’m going to recommend they mark this dead-end ‘Pleasantville’, and downsize in this dimension. Close the Special Projects Department completely.”

“And what about my job?” Lilah said, smiling sweetly. Incandescent as she was, she flattered herself that she was hiding it well.

“I’m sure there’ll be a suitable position –” he said kindly: “– for someone of your obvious dedication.”

Lilah noted bitterly that he didn’t say ‘talent.’

“We still have to maintain services to our core clients, of course, but we _had_ been preparing for a big upswing in this reality – training programmes, re-branding. There’d even been talk of reaching out to new species. Some of them – Bonobos for example – barely know the meaning of true evil as yet. But we’re going to have a long wait for it now, and I think another two thousand years of preparatory work might bore even the Senior Partners.”

Lilah chewed on her thumbnail, and glanced across the room. “Angel doesn’t need to know about this though, does he?” she pleaded. “I mean, we’re still evil, right?”

“Of course we are, my dear.”

Lilah suppressed a shudder as Holland put a decidedly non-avuncular hand on her ass.

“And now I think it’s past my bedtime. Don’t want my wife to fret.” He smiled – and this time it was genuine. “I’ll see you in the Office tomorrow.”

_“Trying to make some sense of it all,  
But I can see that it makes no sense at all ...” _

Holland approached Lorne before heading for the exit. “I know I didn’t ask for a reading, but before I go, maybe you could give me some idea of how I should spend my retirement. What do you think? Golf or horticulture?”

Lorne raised an eyebrow and buffed his left horn thoughtfully, keeping one eye on the stage. “Well, I wouldn’t recommend either – I’m sure I read somewhere that too much fresh air can be bad for you. But if you have to choose, I’d go with golf. It’s definitely the preferred sport of senior evil-doers.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” Holland said with a dry smile. “Don’t want to break with tradition. Thanks for an interesting evening, my hornèd friend. We won’t meet again.”

Lilah was amused to see Lorne jump slightly as Holland went past him. Evidently her boss had given Lorne’s tush the same treatment as her own, before mounting the stairs just as Angel was singing the final chorus.

_“Clowns to the left of me,  
Jokers to the right, here I am,  
Stuck in the middle with you,  
Yes I'm stuck in the middle with you,  
Stuck in the middle with you.” _

As Angel came down from the stage, and was variously slapped on the back, or booed by his friends, Lilah suddenly began to feel rather isolated. Her boss had deserted her, and Lindsey – though still here, at least corporeally – was drooling and snorting in his sleep. She _really_ didn’t want to be lumbered with the task of removing _him_ from the premises, so she, too, headed towards Lorne.

“Well, it’s been fun, but what about my reading, Greeny?”

“Are you sure you want to know?”

“Of course I do.” She took him by the lapels and straightened them threateningly. “Tell me what you meant about me ‘messing up’.”

“Don’t get too worked up about it,” Lorne said with faux-reassurance. “It’s not like either of your paths looked terribly promising – but this time around, you _could_ have come out of it with your heart still beating. Never sign anything unless you’ve had a professional look it over – didn’t your mother ever tell you that?”

“Leave my mother out of this,” Lilah snapped. “Just tell me what you know. I can get it out of you one way or another.”

“I know you can. And would.”

A look of pure malice flitted briefly across Lorne’s usually placid features, and Lilah shuddered and cast a nervous glance towards the door.

“Okay, here’s the sitch. Either way, you lost. If you’d gotten your way with Angel and Darla, it wouldn’t have done you any good – you’d have been left with a nasty scar and that perpetuity clause on your contract most definitely would have kicked in before you’d have liked.”

“So, this way, I get my life back, right?”

“Nu-uh, Sweetbreads. You traded that in for good, I’m afraid.”

_   
**“What?”**   
_

“You made a foolish bargain,” Lorne said, without a trace of sympathy. “When you signed on the dotted line, you traded the life you would have had in _this_ reality to the Powers That Be. ‘Lose a life to gain a life’, remember?”

“But … the seers said I had to sign, to facilitate the Apocalypse!” Lilah felt a rising panic. “If that’s cancelled, shouldn’t the contract be void?”

“Did you make that a condition?”

Lilah bit her lip. In her eagerness to seal the deal, that was something she’d neglected. “But what do they want it for? What are they gonna do with it anyway? And when?”

“That’s up to them, Tiger Lily. But I suggest you put your affairs in order – it’s at their convenience, not yours. And don’t worry.” Lorne treated her to a saccharin smile. “I’m sure it’ll go to someone deserving.”

“Eugh!” Lilah made a face. “Excuse me – I have to consult my lawyers.” She picked up her clutch purse and stormed towards the exit.

Angel stood in her way. “Leaving so soon Lilah? Shame. We’ll all miss you. ’Bye.”

He stood aside and waved her past him.

“Don’t get comfortable, Laughing Boy,” she said. “You’re right about one thing – you are stuck with me. Like it or not – I’m not going anywhere.”

Nevertheless, she headed for the exit as fast as her dignity would allow.

~~

When Angel got back to his seat, he felt Lorne swan up behind him and rest a hand on his shoulder.

“Good choice of song Angel. I don’t think you need worry about Sleeping Beauty here –” he waved a hand at Lindsey’s slumbering form: “so now the Gruesome Twosome’s gone, I’ll tell you something of what I saw. But I’d like to make it public, if you don’t mind sharing?”

Angel looked around at the assembled company. He’d accepted Harmony and Genevieve as his people now; Wesley had proved himself a good friend many times over; Spike was family; and Riley: he was dangerous, there was no doubt about it, and a bit of an enigma, but they’d fought together – very well in fact – and he was Spike’s partner. This might help clear the air between them. Angel made his mind up.

“Go ahead Lorne. But –”

“Don’t fret Big Guy,” Lorne said, his voice lowered: “I’ll vague things up a little. Just trust me.” Lorne clapped his hands for attention and now addressed both Angel and the rest of the group.

“Well, like all of us here, you great big hunk of brood-cake, you had two paths ahead of you. But you were trying to find your way across an active lava field. The path you were set on was like a narrow bridge, leaving you cut off – fire on either side, enemies ahead. You knew it, but you sent away anyone who could have helped you – still punishing yourself for the wrongs you did as Angelus, even more than you are now. Thought you didn’t deserve to have friends. Pretended to yourself that you were being noble – keeping them safe – but it was you who needed to be kept safe, if only you knew it. And the result wasn’t pretty, was it? You’ve had a few glimpses, but luckily for us, something happened that helped you find a better way.”

Lorne took a drink, and Angel glanced across at Wesley who was looking at him pensively.

“So, what saved you from staying on that road? Just one thing. A hand reaching out to you across the widening chasm between you and your friends. And I’m guessing you won’t want to hear this, but it was Spike’s hand. Something he said or something he did helped you to keep your connections and make them grow stronger, instead of cutting yourself off.”

Angel remembered the lecture he’d received from Spike, back in Sunnydale:

_“What really gets you is that I don’t need lessons in being human – or being with a human. Not from you. However soul-having you get, people don’t like you. They don’t trust you. They’re still scared of you. You just don’t connect. What I have is what you want … You’re down in the Slough of Despond, waiting for someone to give you a hand out.” _

And then – for no reason Angel could fathom – Spike had given him that hand.

He’d been right. Angel had wanted – needed – to connect, at least with Buffy. The conversation they’d had after their fight, and all the little prompts and prods he’d had from Spike since then – he’d thought it was just Spike trying to annoy him, or get one over on him, but whether by accident or design, it had helped keep him on track.

Without it …

“Even after everything there was between you – messed up as it was – Spike forgave you,” Lorne went on. “So you started to forgive yourself a little.”

Angel saw Spike look up from examining his fingernails to glance briefly in his direction, tilt his head and smile warmly in confirmation.

Yes, Spike had forgiven him. When Angel had offered to let Riley put a stake in him, Spike had been unexpectedly merciful.

“You made friends, and more important, you let yourself keep them, and they gave back in equal measure.”

“So what kept that from happening in the other … timeline?” Wesley asked. “Do you have any insight into that?” He had a notebook in his hand and had already scribbled a few pages of densely packed notes.

“Still a Watcher at heart, eh?” Lorne said.

Wesley nodded reluctantly, putting down his pen. “You don’t mind me –”

“No! Not at all, take it down for posterity!”

With a murmured, ‘Thanks’, Wesley immediately began writing again.

“Go ahead Lorne,” Angel prompted. “I’d like to know.”

“Well, there’s a Heroine – a blonde – hoo! She’s feisty! She’s very important to you, Angel – a beacon if you like. You know you might never reach it, but it warms your soul, and it shows you where you are, and that’s a comfort. But on your other path – well, that light wasn’t shining just for you. It shone for others.”

Lorne indicated Spike and Riley who looked at each other in confusion.

“Both of these major players saw its light. But it wasn’t a beacon any more – it was a firefly, sending you all in different directions, and setting you at each other’s throats, when you should have been on the same side.”

“Is that Buffy you’re talking about?” Riley looked like he could hardly believe it. “I took her on _one date –_”

“You took Buffy on a date?” Angel growled.

Riley shrugged. “Sorry. I didn’t know … Anyway, it bombed, thank God! She wasn’t really my type.”

Angel subsided, relieved for himself, and strangely insulted on Buffy’s behalf.

“And me, too?” Spike said wonderingly. “So, Drusilla was right then? When she kept going on about me and the Slayer … She was just seeing the wrong version of me. But those visions I had of Buffy don’t make sense.” He rubbed his nose. “Why would she be hitting me if we were … if we weren’t enemies? And why did I tie her up?”

“You tied Buffy up?” Angel glared at him.

“My evil twin did,” Spike said, smirking.

“That alibi won’t work every time you know,” Angel retorted, amused, despite himself.

“Don’t fight about it kids!” Lorne said quickly. “Whatever you did in that other reality, it’s this one that matters. And you’ve all played your parts in keeping Angel – and each other – on the right track. In keeping the dark at bay.”

Lorne closed his eyes for a moment, still processing the evening’s input, before taking a sip of his drink and continuing.

“Until you met this guy –” he said, indicating Riley: “– you never would have believed that a human could accept a vampire. Love them as an equal.” Lorne turned to Angel. “At first you didn’t want to know. It seemed too difficult a path, and you’d rather have taken the road that was more travelled – by you anyway. Walked off in a swirl of smoke and mystery. Sacrificed your hope, and the Slayer’s, because you thought you didn’t deserve it. But everyone needs hope Angel-pie. Everyone.”

Angel looked determinedly at his glass. This was harder than he’d been expecting. It felt like being strip-searched in public.

“You, Wesley – you helped anchor Angel in this reality. Stopped him making the wrong choice. I know he wants to take all the credit, but don’t you let him! You did the digging and gave him vital information right when he needed it. There’s a price for that – things you’ll never experience, challenges you’ll never face, people you’ll never love. Never kill –”

“It’s well worth it,” Wesley said fervently.

“Harmony – you didn’t sing for me tonight, but Angel’s seen how hard you struggle to be what he wants you to be. You may not be the most efficient secretary in the world –”

Harmony looked a little disappointed at that.

“– but your un-dead heart’s in a better place than it was while you were alive.”

Genevieve raised her hand.

“What is it, Muffin?” Lorne said.

“Harmony gave Spike that very important book.”

Lorne looked at Harmony with his head on one side. “Did you really, my little Crème Brulée?”

Harmony’s eyes widened; she glanced meaningfully at Spike, who frowned slightly, then started grinning like an idiot.

“Well, you did us all a mighty big favour, and that’s a fact,” Lorne said.

Harmony preened and sat back in her seat.

“But even you, Genevieve. You’ve only just arrived on the scene, but you’ve shown Angel that he’s still not too old to be surprised, and that’s a gift he’s thankful for.”

Angel tried to look peeved that he had anyone but himself to thank, but he couldn’t help feeling a warm glow, growing in the pit of his stomach. He didn’t have to do it alone. He looked around at the assembled company with a reluctant smile.

Spike raised his hand. “So, why did Buffy –”

“We’ll never know the whole story,” Lorne cut him off. “So don’t strain your grey matter, fellers. The dream is starting to fade, even for me, and I practise keeping track of this stuff. Anyway, there really are _some_ things you’re better off not knowing.”

“Ah. The ‘What-you-don’t-know-can’t-hurt-you’ School of Philosophy,” Spike said. “Founded in Sunnydale.”

But he took Lorne’s point, and didn’t press for further details. Instead, he looked around, his gaze resting longest on Angel. Then he yawned and stretched. “So, everything’s sorted now, is it?” he said. “No more whacky visions or shifting scenery?”

All in all, Spike seemed to have gotten off pretty lightly. Hadn’t had to sing, or have his head shrunk in public. But his inelegant summing-up at least brought the proceedings to a close, and it didn’t escape Angel’s attention that the intervention was deliberate.

Lorne rubbed his hands together. “Yes, as they say on the Heart of Gold, ‘Normality is now restored. Anything you still can’t handle is your own problem!’” Off Spike’s uncertain look Lorne added, “Don’t worry! My crystal ball says that the sun’s gonna shine on you two.”

_**“The sun?”**_ Riley said loudly. “That’s the last thing we want!”

Spike shook his head and said to the world in general, “Sorry, he’s from Iowa …” then whispered in Riley’s ear, “It’s a figure of speech. Just means we’ll be happy.”

“Oh. That’s okay then,” Riley said, relieved to take Spike’s word for it.

“Well, folks, I’m sure you have homes to go to,” Lorne said briskly, looking at his watch. “I’ll put this one out with the trash in the morning,” he muttered, poking Lindsey and getting no response. “Unless I can find another use for him …”

Everyone took that disturbing visual image as their final cue, and began to gather their bits and pieces, down the dregs of their own and – in Spike’s case other people’s – drinks, and wander towards the exit.

As they went up the stairs, Spike flicked Angel on the forehead.

“So, s’not _all_ about you after all … just mostly! How does that feel?”

Angel beamed. “It feels fine, Spike.”

He pulled his coat around him and just for the fun of it, took a deep breath of night air. The others stayed close by, Wesley hailing a taxi, Spike and Riley horsing around, Harmony and Genevieve huddling together and sharing some secret – he didn’t listen in.

It was just nice to have them around.

Maybe even brooding avengers could have friends after all.

~~

When Spike and Riley got out of their cab, Harmony and Genevieve had already gone inside, but Angel was still standing on the step, like an anxious Dad waiting for his teenage daughter to get home.

“Coming in?” Spike said as he stood facing Riley on the sidewalk.

“No, I’ll head back to Wesley’s.” Riley’s reply was calm, and he held Spike off lightly with a hand on his chest. “You need some rest before tomorrow. I … I’ll wait for you or Angel to call me when it’s okay to come see you.”

Spike’s face was full of tenderness as he said, “I’ll come straight home after the op. if that’s what you want. Fuck Angel.”

“No. After what I –”

Spike shook his head and put a finger to Riley’s lips, not wanting to Angel’s suspicions to be aroused once again.

Riley took the hint and said softly, “I’m not going to push you. You come home when you’re ready. However long as it takes, I’ll be waiting for you.”

They kissed then, for a long time, with a slow burn; then they just stood for a while, their foreheads pressed together.

“See you on the other side, then,” Spike said when he noticed that Riley was starting to shiver.

“Yeah. Night, Spike.”

Riley turned away and went to where Wesley was waiting in the cab.

~~

Angel bid a terse, “Goodnight” to Riley and Spike, but they were too engrossed in each other to notice. As he went inside, he pondered what he’d just heard: ‘after what I –’ Riley had said.

What did it mean?

Judging by Spike’s obvious attempts to protect him, Riley must have done something pretty bad. What _had_ happened between them tonight? Was it just a bit of rough sex that got out of hand, or had it been something worse?

They’d been okay together for over a year, and Spike obviously meant a lot to Riley. But Spike would soon have the chip out, and Riley had his human family to think of.

And what had Lorne meant about the sun shining on Spike? It was all very well for Spike – with his poet’s heart – to assume it was a metaphor.

But sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.

It didn’t seem possible, but … what if …

Angel had seen it happen in hick towns, where justice was brutal but rarely swift. An identified vampire – sometimes one who’d lived in a community for years – staked out in a cornfield to burn slowly to ash as the sun rose. Sometimes the locals deliberately chose a cloudy day to do it on.

What if Spike slipped up?

Would Riley or his folks do that to Spike?

The thought of that happening to his … no, he was _not_ going to use the ‘c’ word; to Spike … it worried him more than he liked to contemplate.

He wasn’t going to let that happen.

Couldn’t let it happen.

Somehow, he had to be sure.

~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Quotation credits: **
> 
> **“Mad About the Boy” by Noel Coward  
> “These Boots Were Made for Walking” by Lee Hazlewood  
> “Mack the Knife” by Bertolt Brecht  
> “The Second Coming” by WB Yeats  
> “The Road Not Taken” by Robert Frost  
> “Shrimp Boats” by Paul Mason Howard and Paul Weston  
> “Play Me” by Neil Diamond  
> “Stuck in the Middle With You” by Joe Egan and Gerry Rafferty  
> “Hitch-hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy” by Douglas Adams**


	10. Trials

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spike is finally free of the chip.

**Night 7: Wednesday 31st January.**

Sometimes, Riley wishes he smoked. It would make the waiting a whole lot easier. He could time it by how many cigarettes he’d gotten through, instead of constantly looking at his wrist and finding – to his renewed annoyance – that he still doesn’t have a watch.

It seems kinda foolish to be hanging around outside the Hyperion yet again, with his coat pulled round him against the cold; but at least he no longer has to skulk in the shadows. There’s really no reason he can’t go inside and sit in the lobby to wait for news – just until Spike’s out of surgery – except that … he doesn’t want to …

He’s told Spike he’ll wait for a call before going anywhere near him, and he’s going to stick to that. Because however unnecessary; however crazy – it’s what Spike wants; what he needs to feel safe.

But Riley can’t leave: not while Spike’s under Angleman’s knife. It’s some comfort, knowing that at least this time – third time lucky – Spike’s not caged, strapped down, terrified and raging, as merciless strangers cut into him. This time, Spike is calling the shots. And this time, he’ll have all the painkillers and sedatives he needs.

In a flashback to a waking nightmare, Riley hears the crack, as the retractors spread Spike’s ribs apart; he hears the casual discussion about which organs to remove; he sees Forrest’s face – familiar, yet oh-so-disturbing – as it grins at him across the operating theatre; he gets a gratuitous close-up of a red-brown excised portion _of Spike’s insides_ in a metal dish, waiting to be taken to the lab.

He pushes the memory back where it belongs. It’s hard to believe that he stood by and watched that happen. Harder still to see how Spike can live with that, and still give him … well, not everything. There’s some part of Spike that – even with the ring – Riley can’t touch: a locked box inside Spike’s heart. And no wonder, after what Riley had done; saved Spike’s life, at the cost of his freedom.

But – as Riley often reminds himself – he had no choice. Life’s like that sometimes. Maybe even Spike doesn’t have a key to that box: if he knows it’s there at all.

~~

Riley shivered.

“Cold?” said a voice behind him.

Angel shouldn’t have been able to take him by surprise like that. The Hyperion doors must have enchanted hinges. Or maybe they’d been recently oiled ...

“Not as cold as you,” Riley replied, disconcerted but trying not to let it show.

“Ouch,” Angel said, without rancour.

“Sorry.” Riley passed a hand across his forehead, and it came away damp. That was odd; it was far from warm tonight. “Just a bit … you know ...”

“Worried your pet vampire might decide he doesn’t need you any more when he can fend for himself?” Angel suggested.

Riley blessed Angel with a look composed of alarm and disgust in equal measure. “Well, I _wasn’t_, until you said that. Thanks.” He faced front again.

“So … what’s bothering you?”

How could Angel even ask him that? “Angel, my partner is having brain surgery. _Again. _ I think I’m entitled to be a bit on edge.”

“Not having any doubts?” Angel said blandly.

Riley glanced at Angel, standing square on his feet with his hands behind his back: big, immovable-object-type bastard.

“About what?” Riley demanded, already knowing the answer he’d get.

“About Spike. About taking a demon back home to the folks. A demon without a soul to guide him, or a chip to restrain him.”

Riley congratulated himself on his own restraint in not taking a swing at Angel. “Don’t know me very well do you?” he said, forcing his voice to remain level; reasonable.

“That’s not an answer.”

Fine. It was too quiet out here anyway. A bit of philosophical bullshitting might help pass the time. As though the tired old argument bored him half to death, Riley said, “So, you’re still insisting Spike doesn’t have a soul.”

“Sure. Why wouldn’t I?”

“And you _have_ one.” Riley injected his words with a healthy dose of scepticism.

“Yes.” Angel’s reply was quietly smug. Like he’d done something to earn it.

“Let’s see it then,” Riley suggested.

Angel blew out a puff of air. “It doesn’t live in a jar,” he said, shifting slightly. “At least, not … well, let’s just say, if I could show it to you, it’d be the last thing you’d ever see.”

The hint of a threat told Riley that he’d managed to get Angel just slightly rattled. Turning away to hide a grin, he said, “I know some science. I don’t just believe stuff without evidence. If you can show me anything to prove that you have a soul, and Spike doesn’t, I’ll be interested to see it.”

“You believe in air?” Angel asked, now clearly irritated. “Can’t see that.”

“No, but I know what it’s like not to have it,” Riley replied. “Had a diving instructor who made a point of shutting off our air, just for a few seconds, to show us how it feels to go without. So I know it’s there even if I can’t see it. I know I need it to live.”

It was the same with Spike. Just the thought of being without him made Riley’s heart clench; made him angry and a bit afraid, like being without oxygen. “I can’t see Spike in the mirror but I know damn well he’s there when –”

Riley stopped himself. No need to go that far, for the sake of a macho pissing contest.

“– and when he’s not. But I haven’t seen or felt any evidence that you have a soul and Spike doesn’t. Far as I’m concerned, you might both have one or both not. Sometimes seems like he has one and you don’t, but it’s not testable.”

“Maybe Spike will supply you with the proof you need,” Angel said grimly.

“Or maybe he has something to prove to _you_ – ever think about that?”

Silence.

“I would have thought after what that green guy – Lorne – said last night, you might have more respect. I guess gratitude was too much to expect. But do you have to be so down on Spike the whole time?”

Angel was pretty good at silence.

“Maybe this soul thing isn’t as simple as you think.”

“Meaning what?” Angel said, finally making another contribution, however abrupt.

“Okay, I get that vampires lose ’em when they’re turned, and you got one back when some gypsies shoved it inside you. I guess it might even have been yours.”

Riley could see, by the frown creasing Angel’s brow, that he was really starting to get under his skin, and he wasn’t sorry for it.

“Take a look around, Angel. Plenty people lose their souls without being bitten by vampires. I nearly lost mine once or twice.”

He felt his throat tighten. Angel shot him a surprised glance, because – without thinking – he’d laid a hand on Angel’s arm to make sure he had his full attention.

“They just lose ’em,” Riley pressed on. “Usually bit by bit. The world rubs it off them. Or, they give a bit of it to someone who doesn’t give anything back – then maybe a little bit of both their souls dies. They can’t grow – can’t live – unless something goes both ways.”

For some reason, Riley felt an urgent need to convince Angel, even though he was making this up on the fly. He held Angel’s gaze intently as he went on, “Even if Spike didn’t have a soul when I met him – and I don’t believe that for a moment, but even if he didn’t – he has a piece of mine now, and he’s doin’ his damnedest to make it grow. I’ve watched him. Seen him start caring, not just about me, but my mom. My niece Rebecca. And it’s not even just my folks. When we were at that place in Cleveland, he didn’t have to send us to find Genevieve. He didn’t have anything to gain by it. God knows he could have been excused for not even thinking of her, but he did. Seems like you need a soul and a gypsy curse to keep you in line – but I don’t believe Spike does. I think he’s learning to do it on his own.”

Riley swallowed hard before adding, “For what it’s worth, I think he even cares about you.”

Angel blinked and shrugged his coat closer around his shoulders but said nothing, so Riley went on filling the airwaves.

“And maybe I’m not the right person to say this, but I think I’m changing too – for the better – since I took up with Spike. It’s not like my soul is so lily-white. But I’m a better man now than I was before.”

Riley’s monologue having run out of steam, Angel said dryly, “I’m sure the Vatican Council will take your theory under consideration, Cardinal Finn.”

Riley grunted and turned away. His reserve of giving-a-fuck-what-Angel-thinks was now officially exhausted. After a moment he said, “Anyway, shouldn’t you be down there keeping an eye on things?”

“Angleman’s got it covered. He has his own … people in on the job. I was just gettin’ in the way.”

“Can’t have that,” Riley responded, rather too quickly for propriety.

“Am I sensing a little … animosity here Riley?”

Yeah, a cigarette would be good right now.

“You want him,” Riley said calmly. “Don’t think I don’t know it.”

Angel put his hands in his coat pockets, and shuffled his feet, and Riley felt a curious mixture of anger and satisfaction at having his suspicion confirmed.

“I want a lot of things I know I can’t have –” Angel conceded: “– and maybe don’t deserve. Spike’s just one of them, and believe it or not, he isn’t the first item on my Christmas list, or even the second. I’m dealing.”

“Good,” Riley said. “Anyway, soul or no soul, you’d better not do anything to harm Spike while he’s here. I still have enough explosives to blow you and your hotel to Kingdom Come.”

Angel snorted. “Kingdom Come would probably blow me straight back … again. But don’t worry. Harming Spike isn’t on my agenda. I thought you’d have realised that by now. He has. Doesn’t that ring of yours tell you as much?”

If Angel’s words had been in a speech bubble, ‘that ring of yours’ would have been written in green ink, but Riley didn’t call Angel on it. He just concentrated for a second on the ring.

“It’s not telling me anything. He’s still out of it.”

“But when he’s awake …” Angel sounded slightly edgy as he went on: “– he’s not afraid of me, is he?”

“No.”

“So. How does he … think … about me?”

Riley battled for a moment with his darker instinct, which told him to deny Angel any part of Spike: any claim on him that he could. But that desire – powerful as it might be – wasn’t going to lead anywhere good. Grudgingly, Riley threw Angel another bone.

“He trusts you.”

Angel sounded very old and weary when he said, “Then why is it that you don’t?”

Riley considered. “You’re right. I don’t trust you. I believe you want what’s best for Spike. And I think by now, you must realise I’m a big part of that. But he means too much to me to trust you, or anyone I know so little about, if it comes down to it.”

“Good.” Angel clasped his hands behind his back. “That’s good.”

They stood together for some time after that, not smoking in silence.

~~

The streets were strange.  
She was alone.  
Darla had promised to take care of her.  
Darla had lied.  
Everything was lying to her.  
The visions had shown her things that weren’t true.  
Beauty and the Beast.  
But that was just one story.  
Now the world was all made new, and the tides of fate were flowing uphill.

Drusilla whined and clawed at her breast.

All her bloody knights had galloped away, and they were red no more.  
But what can change, can be changed back.

“Turn again, turn again, Dick Whittington,” she murmured.  
Her eyes flew wide open.

The spider had crawled out of its box.

~~

“I expected him to be more awake by now,” said a disembodied voice. It sounded a little concerned. “He must have been pretty far under.”

Spike’s head hurt. There were bright lights shining in his face, and he wanted to roll over to get away from them, but that was proving difficult because his limbs seemed to be made of something both immensely heavy and unconnected to his brain. He could dimly make out the shapes of three masked figures looking down on him.

One said, “Give him another shot of the Antisedan.”

As he saw one of the figures turn away, Spike connected the sound of that voice with a place of captivity and torment.

The Initiative?

What?

Didn’t he escape from here?

If he hadn’t felt so groggy he’d have been terrified. He tried harder to move, and this time his efforts were noticed. A hand pushed him down on his back.

“Don’t struggle – you’ll fall off the table.”

Then he jerked as something was jabbed into his shoulder. So: pain sensors still working then. He lay quietly for a moment, trying to remember … who was that masked man?

“Give him another dose of painkillers.”

He saw a nurse turn a dial. Then he knew. Angleman!

As his hand shot out to grip the doctor by the throat, Spike flinched – muscle-memory expecting the searing fire in his brain that accompanied such violence. But there was no pain. He tightened his grip. Still nothing. Then he remembered why Angleman was here. Spike breathed heavily, trying to control his excitement. The uninvited guest – the robotic squatter in his head – was gone.

The eviction notice had been served and the annoying little blighter sent packing!

Though his vision was blurred, he could see it now: the chip: a little bit of wire and silicon with some indescribable bits of stuff – of _him_ – adhering to it, floating in a jar on a table near his head.

He thought he might throw up.

Then the painkillers kicked in. His fingers slackened around the alarmed-looking surgeon’s neck.

Angleman rubbed his throat, and then held up the jar. “We kept your little gizmo for you in case you wanted it as a keepsake, see?”

Spike laughed feebly. It would go nicely on the mantelpiece with his stake. His hand fell back onto the bed.

“Thanks mate …” he murmured, as he fell asleep.

~~

Angel was convinced he must have covered the length of the San Andreas fault, pacing to and fro across the lobby, by the time Doctor Angleman – his medical bag in his hand, and his two assistants in tow – came up from the basement. When he finally appeared, Angel was in his face in a heartbeat, demanding, “How is he?” – with such force that Angleman jumped backwards, nearly pitching his aides back down the stairs.

Angel backed off, his hands raised in apology.

“He should be fine,” the doctor said, when he had recovered his composure. “He’s sleeping comfortably now. He’ll probably be dead to the world – so to speak – for a few hours, though it’s sometimes hard to tell how long a vamp will take to fully recover from anaesthesia. When he wakes, just keep him quiet and make sure he feeds. I’ve left the painkillers set up. Let him have whatever dose he wants, they won’t do a vampire any harm.”

“So – are they the same drugs you’d give a human, or are they some kind of mystical equivalent?” Angel enquired casually.

Angleman shook his head firmly. “No magic used in today’s procedures,” he assured Angel. “I _have_ started to dabble in the alternative stuff, but I thought I’d better stick to what I know in this case.”

“Wise move,” Angel said, frowning.

“Some normal – human – drugs work on demons, some don’t,” Angelman went on. “When I was working for the … well, in my old job, we tried just about everything. It took a while to learn the right combinations and doses for even the most basic procedures. You know, sedation, making them more co-operative, even sometimes getting them to eat, so we could give them other preparations. And of course, no species, or even individual, is exactly alike, and vampires can recover from pretty much anything you pump into them, so it’s sometimes hard to judge the results.” Angleman looked suddenly nervous. “Not that I –”

“That’s ... very interesting,” Angel interrupted. “There’s just a couple more things I might need from you …”

He indicated his office, and Angleman stepped inside.

A few minutes later, Angel ushered the doctor, and his aides, who had been waiting for him, out of the back entrance of the Hyperion.

“‘Limbo Rentals’ will call to arrange collection of the equipment in a few days,” Angleman told him, then quietly added, “– and I’ll have those things sent round within the hour.”

“Fine,” Angel said. “Thanks.”

“But if he has any problems at all – like, he can’t recall who’s president and thinks it matters – give me a call straight away. I’m at your service.”

“Good,” Angel said. As an afterthought he added, “And until you hear from me that Spike’s back on his feet? Don’t leave town.”

~~

“He’s out of surgery,” Angel informed Riley without preamble. “Doc says he’s sleeping.”

Despite the fact that Angel’s approach had – again – been silent, on this occasion Riley didn’t have to suppress any signs of having been surprised; he’d been expecting a visit. Sensing Spike’s moment of panic on waking, he’d almost rushed inside, but his partner’s subsequent lapse into reasonably pain-free sleep had reassured him. Then – feeling unusually sensitive – Riley had noticed a slight movement in the air behind him, just before Angel had spoken.

“Is he still here – Angleman?” Riley asked eagerly. “Can I speak with him?”

“He said he had an urgent appointment – went out the other way. His car was parked round the back. You wanna go in and see Spike while he’s still asleep?”

That was suspicious. Angel knew the arrangement; why was he offering something he knew Riley was bound to refuse?

“You know I do. But I told him I’d wait. Gave him my word.” Riley wiped a hand over his mouth. “Have _you _seen him yet?”

“No. I thought I’d see you first. Let you know he came through it alright.”

“Thanks.”

The memory of the cells at the Initiative came back to Riley. “So, he’s alone down there? In the basement? You made it comfortable, right?”

“It’s plenty comfortable,” Angel assured him. “Genevieve’s gone down to sit with him. She and Harmony said they’d take turns. He won’t be left alone, not till he’s up and about.”

“How long –”

“We don’t really know,” Angel said. “But it’ll be at least a day – more likely two – before I can be sure it’s safe for Spike to see you. If I allowed him to do you any harm, that’d be the one thing he’d never forgive me for.”

That was an inconvenient but undeniable truth.

“Look, Riley, it’s nearly midnight. Why don’t you go home? Spike’s gonna be sleeping for hours yet and you look done in. Get some rest. And try not to spend all day hanging around out here tomorrow. You should take it easy.” Angel looked Riley up and down. “Or – I dunno – do some shopping, while you’re in the big city.”

Riley was over his funk about his clothing – really he was; but maybe Angel was right. He wasn’t doing Spike any good standing around outside, and he wouldn’t look like much to come home to if he stayed on his feet any longer. Thinking about it, he wondered whether he might be running a slight fever. The sensible thing would be to go back to Wesley’s and catch some z’s.

He checked his phone had plenty of charge. “You’ll phone me right away if anything goes wrong, or if Spike needs me.”

“Sure.”

Riley pinned him with a glare. “It wasn’t a request,” he said. Then he turned on his heel and walked away.

~~

**Day 8: Thursday 1st February: early afternoon.**

Spike woke with a slight muzzy headache. He was lying in bed – well, on a bed – fully dressed. He wasn’t going to open his eyes just yet, because there was someone else in the room: Angel.

That was weird.

Why was Angel watching him sleep?

Realisation came tiptoeing into his mind, like the start of the summer holidays, wrapped up in the best Christmas morning ever, and Spike knew where he was; why he was here.

_   
**He was free.**   
_

His first impulse was to leap off the bed with a roar, just to see if he could give the old man a fright; but he satisfied himself with stirring slightly, and rolling over as if in sleep, as he contemplated his new status.

He could harm a human.  
Lots of humans if he wanted.  
Men and women.  
Rich or poor.  
The young and fit, or the old and helpless.  
People in wheelchairs.  
The guilty and the innocent alike.  
He could go out and slaughter an orphanage if he wanted.  
Or a nunnery: that’d piss Angelus off.

Hell, he could even take the Slayer on again, if the fancy took him. Now that was a thought. Not for the blood. The first one had been sweet, no doubt about it. With no one around to share it, the second victory had felt a little hollow, and he hadn’t tasted Nicky Wood; some strange combination of respect and uber-cool or ennui had stayed his fangs.

But Buffy: just to have the beating of her …

He remembered the feel of her tiny fist in his face; of her heat pressing down on him, taking him in; of her firm, strong body, struggling beneath him …

No: wait; steady on.

That wasn’t him.

It wasn’t him, and he wasn’t going to do that; wasn’t going to do any of it.  
Not today, anyway.

Not today.

One day at a time, Spike; one day at a time.

These thoughts made him acutely conscious of Angel’s scrutiny. It was time to wake up. Spike opened his eyes wider than he’d intended, and quickly covered them, though the light wasn’t terribly bright.

“Feeling a bit hyper?” Angel asked mildly.

Spike forced himself not to sit bolt upright.

“Maybe,” he hedged. “What if I am?” He pushed himself up on his elbows. “What d’you know about it?”

“For the last hour, you’ve been twitching, and kicking, and flailing like a kitten on triple-strength catnip.”

“Huh. Must have been dreaming.” Spike thought for a moment. He_ had_ been dreaming: dreaming about his fella.

Riley!

Spike sat up cautiously, hoping to hide the hard-on, of which he was suddenly very much aware.

Angel’s glance briefly took in the source of Spike’s embarrassment. “Bet I can guess what you were dreaming about.”

“Riley!” Spike said enthusiastically. He shook his head at himself for blurting it out like that.

“So … you’ll be wanting to see him?” Angel said, with an amused expression.

_   
**“Ye-ah!”**   
_

Bloody hell! Did it again! Maybe he’d been wise to make sure Riley wasn’t there to greet him. Probably would have blasted the poor bloke all the way back to Iowa with his first ‘hello.’

“That is … maybe later …” Spike qualified. “Or tomorrow, even. Feelin’ a bit … you know …” He glanced nervously around the basement: “… demon-y.”

Angel nodded. He didn’t look overly concerned. “How are you, feeling – I mean, physically? Can you walk?”

Spike shook his limbs a little tentatively, noticed the butterfly that still connected him to the drip, ripped it out of his hand, and leapt off the bed.

“I should cocoa! Feel great! Feel like I could achieve escape velocity!”

He paced the length of the basement once or twice, experimentally flapping his arms.

“Genevieve probably overdid the painkillers,” Angel said, grinning. “Every time you moaned or grunted in your sleep, she thought you were in agony, and pumped another dose into you.”

“You mean this’ll wear off?” That would be a shame.

Angel shrugged. “Do you see the word ‘Doctor’ tattooed on my forehead?”

Spike peered at Angel just to check. “Only if it’s spelt with three sixes,” he said seriously.

“Funny,” Angel replied, in a voice that could clean copper. “You should be in Vaudeville.”

Spike flipped him off.

“So, what have I missed? Any more popes died? Got any fags? What’s the crack with this Darla and Drusilla nonsense? Do they know the Apocalypse is off? Have they given up or what? Have you seen Riley?”

Spike couldn’t seem to stop his mouth running away with him.

Looking pained, Angel replied, “Not much … er, no, maybe, don’t know, and –”

“You still need a sparring partner?”

Spike was cherishing a sneaking hope that the answer would be ‘yes.’ For all that his dick was insisting on the urgent necessity of getting within shagging distance of Riley Finn in double-quick time, Spike knew it was too soon. A good brawl would help take the edge off.

“I don’t know if Wolfram &amp; Hart still have plans for me,” Angel said. “They don’t invite me to their staff meetings. But as Wesley seems to be in agreement, I’m prepared to take Lorne’s word on this occasion. The Apocalypse isn’t happening, so ...”

Sounded like Angel was chickening-out, after all.

“So – no knock-about then?” Spike tried to hide his disappointment. “No – ‘We-don’t-talk-about-Fight-Club’?”

“Well, much as I’d enjoy kicking your ass one last time –”

“Hey! You don’t know –”

“– I don’t see there’s much need for it. I don’t think I’ll be seeing Darla again. As for Drusilla –” A shit-eating grin crossed Angel’s face: “– I can handle her as well as anyone.”

Spike felt his hackles rise.

“What?” Angel said, spreading his hands, his innocence so phoney it would have made James T. Kirk blush. “What did I say?”

“You can _handle_ her?”

Without knowing how it happened, Spike had Angel pressed up against the wall.

“Always did before,” Angel said with a smirk.

Spike took a deep breath. So that was Angel’s game. Well, Spike was ready for it. He raised an eyebrow, and let his demon out to play.

“Missed this did you?”

Angel grinned; his fangs dropped in response. “Like your mother’s milk.”

Then all hell broke loose.

~~

They went at it, ferocious and silent. It wasn’t like the last time they fought. It was hard alright, but not dirty; fists and feet, but no fangs.

The old man still had the beating of him, that was for sure, but this time Angel didn’t try to rob him of his blood or his dignity; didn’t touch him _like that. _ It wasn’t intimate.

In Spike’s rare lucid moments, he was grateful for that. Poised on the razor’s edge where the morphine high ended and the demon began, he doubted he’d have had the wit or the will, even to try and resist, if Angel had decided to take advantage.

What really surprised Spike: more than once, when he’d been dumped on the floor in a gasping heap, Angel left the basement, then returned with two full mugs of human blood: one for each of them.

The second time, Spike felt he had to ask, “Off the wagon?” – as he swiped a hand across his mouth, and licked some remnants from it.

“It’s hospital stuff. You’re recovering from surgery, and … well I’m treating myself,” Angel said candidly. “Not every day I have an opponent worthy of me.”

The stunned silence that followed was interrupted by Riley’s ring-tone. Quickly, Spike located his mobile and answered it.

“Riley, Mate?”

“Spike!” Riley’s voice sounded slightly nasal. “How’s it going?”

Wound-up from the fight, and shocked by Angel’s unexpected compliment, Spike wasn’t really in a fit state for rational conversation, and his mouth was bruised from an impact with the floor, which made talking a bit painful. But he didn’t want to worry his partner, so he just said, “’M fine.”

It didn’t escape Riley’s attention that this was unusually monosyllabic, even for Spike. “You sound … off,” he said, his voice a little anxious.

“I’m fine!” Spike insisted. “Scout’s honour.”

Riley wasn’t convinced. “Are you vamped-out?”

Spike quickly shook off his game-face. “No!” then – seeing Angel roll his eyes at the not-quite-lie – he cringed and said, “Just … tired. How ’bout you?”

“Running a bit of a fever. I think it’s the sea air – or maybe all the late nights catching up on me. I’m trying to sleep it off. That usually works.” He sneezed. “And Wesley’s pouring soup and whiskey down my throat.”

“So long as that’s all he’s putting down there,” Spike said.

“Of course!” Riley said, sounding shocked.

Spike smiled. “Kidding, Mate.”

“Oh. Yeah. Sorry, I’m just a bit out of it. You’ll call me when –”

“Soon as I can. Still not feelin’ quite … myself.”

“But you’re okay? It went alright?”

“Went fine.”

“Good. More than good,” Riley said. “Great.”

Spike could feel Riley’s anxiety, and cursed himself for his apparent inability to string a decent sentence together. It occurred to him that Angleman might have inadvertently fucked with his speech centre, but he wasn’t going to say so. He trawled through his brain for the right thing to say, and came up empty.

“I miss you,” Riley filled in for him.

He sounded a bit choked. It was probably just his cold.

“Yeah, miss you too, Pet,” Spike said, suddenly feeling sentimental. “Keep warm. I’ll see you soon.” Then he added, “Very soon.”

“You sure you’re –”

“I’m _**fine**_. Sleep. That’s an order.”

Spike clicked his phone off. Riley did sound rough. Spike felt a bit bad about it. It should be _him_ giving Riley soup … or something. Oh well: couldn’t be helped. Wesley was a funny old bird, but he was okay; someone he could trust.

As Spike swigged the dregs of his mug of blood, he wondered how long they’d been fighting. “How long we gonna keep this up?” he asked Angel.

Angel was standing at the top of the stairs with his arms folded. “When you can get past me, you can leave this basement.”

“Don’t give me that ‘Master Kan’ crap,” Spike said. “And if you tell me to ‘use the Force’ I’ll –”

Angel launched himself down the stairs, slamming Spike to the floor.

Spike bucked and easily threw him off. “Losin’ your edge?” Spike said, fangs dropping once more.

“A little fatigued, that’s all. And you’ve improved.”

Then Spike knew Angel was holding back.

But so was he.

“Don’t hold back,” Spike said.

That’s when it got dirty.

~~

**Thursday evening.**

Those bad boys were dancing without her; that wasn’t allowed.  
But soon the orchestra would stop.

Or perhaps she would cut in.

“Excuse me,” Drusilla murmured. “May I ’ave the pleasure …” and held her hand out to the empty air.

Then she heard the call of a blackbird.  
It was just down here, in the cellar.

She drifted down some steps to a basement club.

Music played, eldritch and familiar – ‘You know what flows there like wine …’ – and youths pranced and posed, mocking the night with their paintings.

But there was one here who had called to her.

One who had been looking for Drusilla.  
She would make a very pretty pet.  
Spike had always been so fond of her pets.  
Perhaps the Straw Man liked blackbirds too.

~~

This time, Angel didn’t close with him, but cocked his head, regarding Spike as though he were a specimen in a jar. “Remind me – how’d this all start, eh, Spike? I can’t believe you let the Initiative catch you, after everything I taught you.”

Spike was puzzled by the change in tone, but he wasn’t going to say so. “Told you before. Sly cheatin’ bastards snuck up and tasered me,” he said. “Not bloody cricket if you ask me.”

He lunged at Angel, but found only empty air.

“Careless, Spike.” Angel shook his head. “All those times I tried to beat some sense into you – was it a waste of effort?”

Spike scowled at his sire; this wasn’t what he’d meant by, ‘Don’t hold back’.

Keeping his distance, Angel speculated – “I guess you were distracted. Mooning over Drusilla, or stalking the Slayer.” He pistolled a finger at Spike: “– or maybe just making speeches to yourself, about how great you are.”

Fuck! The old man must be bloody psychic.

“It’s almost like you were looking for the chance to volunteer as a little fuck-toy for the troops. I mean, you even let the Nazis catch you, and they weren’t exactly bright.” Angel chuckled. “Never realised you had such a powerful yen for men in uniforms.”

Spike turned away. There was a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. The sinister ripping sound as Forrest unzipped his fatigues, and the pain and smell of his own singed flesh when Forrest’s sidekick burned him with a cigarette were still clear in his mind; but that wasn’t what was disturbing him the most.

“Does Riley dress up for you? I’ll bet he does.”

“Sod off!” Spike took a swing at Angel: a haymaker that was all too easy to avoid.

“You belonged there anyway – demon research. A vampire that loves without a soul! Is that why they cut you open? Looking for your bleeding heart?”

“They got the wrong vamp then,” Spike said, still trying to get within striking distance. “Should have took you down there.”

“They wouldn’t have caught _me_. I keep my wits about me.”

Spike snorted. The old man had handed it to him on a plate. “I don’t remember you putting up much resistance against the crack team of me and that perv Marcus,” he said. “Had you strung up and run through before you knew what hit you.”

“Yeah … you’re right, Spike.” Angel said thoughtfully. “I’d forgotten. And I never got payback for the pokers did I? Not really …”

Suddenly, Angel loomed larger, and more menacing.

Damn. Maybe reminding him about that hadn’t been the brightest thing to do just now.

Angel feinted towards him; Spike dodged back more sharply than he needed, and that drew a low, throaty chuckle from Angel. “Glad to see I can still put the fear of God into you.”

“The Devil more like,” Spike countered, a little embarrassed.

“Changing the subject a little …”

Angel turned on the spot and brushed past Spike, then stood with his back to him, his big shoulders hunched. “I never quite worked it out. How did you get Riley on your side anyway? Can’t just have been that pathetic storybook.” He turned back, clicked his fingers and pointed at Spike. “Hey, I’ll bet you switched on the waterworks, didn’t you?”

Spike’s nervous twitch didn’t escape his tormentor’s attention.

“You did! I knew it!” Angel’s triumphant grin set Spike’s teeth on edge.

“Tell me – ’cos I gotta know – was it just a single perfect tear? Or did you blub like on your first night at boarding school? I hear that always gets sympathy from gullible idiots.”

Spike’s jaw tightened. “You’d ’ave been bloody crying if they’d cracked you open like a sodding easter egg and –” he wrinkled his nose and cast about for a phrase: “– and nicked your bag of Smarties.” He looked up, fully prepared for the ridicule that metaphor deserved.

But Angel didn’t even crack a smile, though he raised an eyebrow. “Maybe I would.” He studied his fingernails.

This time, Spike hung back, not fooled into thinking it was an opening.

“Must have been humiliating for someone of your experience,” Angel said.

He picked up the jar where the chip floated like a pickled invertebrate, and looked at Spike through the curving glass. Spike could see Angel’s left eye grotesquely distorted, squinting at him. It was like being under a microscope.

“Caged up and castrated like that ...”

“Hey!” Spike tried to snatch the jar from Angel.

Angel just held him off, and carefully put it back down on the table. “Don’t you resent Riley – just a little bit – for charging in and rescuing you?” He paused before adding pointedly, “Twice?”

It was true.

Riley’d never needed _his_ help, and though he’d been bloody grateful for the saves, he _had_ resented it – just a little. Spike let his head drop, then his shoulder, and aimed a swift spinning back-kick, catching Angel in the solar plexus with a satisfying thud and putting him on the ground.

“Yeah, well – better humiliated than vivisected,” Spike said.

Angel got up off the floor and dusted himself down. “I guess you’re getting used to it by now. The humiliation I mean – looking like that. You must have got some shit from the friendly local rednecks in Riley’s hometown. And with no way to fight back ...”

Spike turned so Angel wouldn’t see his expression. But then, maybe Angel knew – maybe Riley had let some of it slip.

“And what about Riley’s folks? What a disappointment for them. Nice country lad like Riley. I’ll bet they weren’t expecting him to bring such a queer fish home with him – an un-dead nancy-boy who forgot to grow up. ‘Guess who’s coming to dinner’!”

Spike shrugged, then whipped across the room, pressing Angel against the wall with his forearm to his sire’s throat. “Don’t fucking talk about what you don’t know. I got on fine with ’em. They’re good people!”

Even Spike couldn’t stop himself wincing as he heard the words spill out.

As for Angel – the git laughed in his face.

“What the hell happened to you? Listen to yourself! ‘Good people’?” Angel cupped a hand to his ear. “You sound like William the Bloody Choir-boy. What? Did you come over all pathetic like you did with Joyce?” He cocked his head. “Did Riley’s mom want to take the poor little lost chuck under her wing?”

Spike blinked and swallowed.

“What if she did?” he said quietly, looking Angel in the eye. “What’s wrong with that?”

Then he had to look away. He missed Sarah, and he missed her kitchen, and he missed the table, with his name carved in it, along with all the rest. Wanted to run his fingers along the letters: the proof that he was real; that there was somewhere he was wanted.

“And what would a demon know about good people?” Angel said, thrusting Spike away as though he weighed no more than a kitten.

“I know they were bloody good to _me, _” Spike said sullenly.

Angel rubbed his throat where Spike had pressed against it. “Is that why you sent Riley crawling to me for scraps on your behalf? As if I need a slacker like you working for me! Jeez, some of the mouldy old crap you sent me …”

Spike shook his head. “But you said …”

Not listening.  
Don’t want to hear this.

But the cable was cut and the elevator was plummeting down the shaft, taking Spike’s heart with it.

Angel smiled pityingly. “Cordy could have bought better junk on E-bay. But I just felt so sorry for you, stuck on the farm all day, with your ‘good people’.”

_“Fucker!” _

Spike picked up a metal tray and flung it at Angel’s head, but Angel just plucked it out of the air and tossed it aside.

“And you can’t even be trusted to do the simplest thing,” Angel said. He shook his head, as if amused. “Getting yourself captured seems to be quite a habit. I mean – once is just unlucky. Twice is careless. But three times? – begins to look deliberate. Did you even want to be rescued? Or did you feel the need to indulge a few guilt-free kinks? Sorry if we spoiled the party for you.”

_**“Party?” **_ Spike flung a furious kick at Angel’s head.

Angel caught his leg and flipped him onto his back, and Spike thumped the ground in impotent frustration.

“Nearly got away with it too,” Angel said. “I thought Riley’d give up on you when he found out what you’d got mixed up in.”

And Spike couldn’t look at Angel, because he’d thought the same; he’d thought _no one_ would come. “You don’t know Riley,” he muttered, scrambling to his feet.

“You think?”

Spike looked up sharply. “What does that mean?”

“Oh … not much,” Angel said with a shrug. “I admit, I misjudged him. He’s loyal. Which is great if you like dogs. And he’s a long haul guy. Have to give him credit for taking you back after seeing you like that …” He shuddered theatrically and rubbed his crotch in fake sympathy “Boy, that must have smarted. And that stake …”

Spike closed his eyes and turned away. The memory was still raw, and the slight lisp that manifested in Angel’s voice when his fangs were unsheathed was shredding his nerves, as it always had.

“Riley’s pretty useless in a fight though,” Angel said. “Comes over all macho, but to be honest, when we came in to get you? I had to carry him most of the time.”

“Liar,” Spike spat out.

Angel began to swagger towards him. “Riley Finn, corn-fed pervert.”

“He’s not … Hey!” Spike went for Angel in earnest, blind fury giving him the strength and speed to land a couple of decent blows that rocked Angel back.

Then Angel just batted his hands away, and he was in Spike’s face, looking out from under that forehead of his, like a beast in a cave: his next words dredged from the cold depths of his own demon’s depravity.

“Lucky for you I came along with him. Or that good ’ole boy would have _had_ you – taken you there and then – laid out so pretty, messed-up and bleeding all over that restraining device, you _**do**_ know that, don’t you?”

_   
**“No!” **   
_

Spike smashed his forehead into Angel’s, and when his sire fell back, clutching his head, Spike kicked him between the legs.

But even as Angel went down he was still smirking; still chortling. “It’s always that grain of truth that hurts so _very _badly, ain’t it?”

“He’s_** not**_ –” Spike kicked Angel in the stomach and watched with savage satisfaction as he curled up in pain. “He’s _**not **_a _**pervert**_ –” He landed another kick, this time to the kneecap. _** “He’s not you.” **_

Spike turned away in disgust.

“I can’t tell whether you’re relieved about that or disappointed,” Angel said. Despite a couple of winces, there was a crooked smile on his face as he picked himself up off the floor.

“Still, at least the whole Cleveland Experience gave me the chance to get to know your boyfriend better. That flea-pit hotel of yours wasn’t much, but the bed was okay. We made the best of it.”

…

Spike felt the floor spinning slowly beneath him.

It couldn’t be; not this one too.

His fangs started to ache.

It wasn’t true; he wasn’t going to bite; didn’t – wouldn’t – believe it.

“_What_ … are you sayin’?” Spike’s voice wavered. He screwed his eyes tight shut, waiting for Angel to take it back.

He could still take it back.

He had to take it back.

“Yeah, your Boy was pretty tense – night before battle, you know how it is. I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of relieving that a little.” Angel rolled his shoulders, and laughed. “He’s quite a stallion. I had such fun breaking him in.”

Something inside Spike started to die. The blood in his veins had turned to ice, and all he could say was, “Shut your fuckin’ mouth.”

But Angel just licked his lips and grinned, and said, “Like it was_ my_ mouth doing the fucking!”

Spike shook his head, trying to shake Angel’s slander from his mind. “No.”

“Funny. That’s just what he said – at first.” Angel snickered. “But like the nice, polite boy he is, he soon learned to say ‘please.’ Then I fucked him good. In the mouth, and in the ass.”

Spike could feel his lips shaping fragments of words, as if trying to make sense of a book in a half-remembered tongue.

“Yeah, there’s nowhere I haven’t been,” Angel said, looking Spike in the eye.

Rational thought drained away. Spike flew at Angel, knocking him flat, and pounded blow after blow into his grinning face, one-handed as he sat astride him, holding him by the throat; but still Angel wouldn’t stop.

“Riley’s pretty_ and_ insatiable.”

Each word was ground into Spike’s brain like windscreen glass as he tried to beat Angel’s face into the concrete.

_   
**“Shut it!” **   
_

“It’s a rare and beautiful combination.”

_   
**“No! No! No!” **   
_

There was nothing left; nothing that Angel hadn’t taken from him: except this rage.

_**“Liar!” **_Spike roared in desperation. “You’re a bloody liar, admit it! Say it!”

The right side of Angel’s face was starting to swell up, and now, though he smiled and smiled, he said nothing.

“Bastard! You bastard!”

Spike’s fist was raw and bloody. He’d smashed it into the stone floor, missing his target – that grinning gargoyle – so many times, because he could hardly see it through the haze of fury.

“Villain! You damned vill–”

Choking, Spike had to stop pulping Angel’s face. The last of his strength drained out of him; he collapsed like a worm-eaten apple; let his head fall back, as his whole body was wracked by shuddering sobs.

It seemed like hours passed, with nothing in existence but the sound of these dry wrenching gasps: all he had left to give. At last, even these burned themselves out, and Spike was left empty – staring into space.

He was vaguely aware that his head was throbbing.

In a moment of clarity, it came to him that Angel had long ago stopped fighting back, or even trying to defend himself. Anxiously licking his bloodied knuckles, Spike looked down.

Angel’s smile was gone.

Spike pulled Angel up, unresisting, by his shirtfront and let him drop down hard on the concrete floor.

“S’not true is it?” Spike pleaded. “Angelus?” Tentatively, he touched the bloody mess of Angel’s face. “Please?”

Angel rubbed a thumb over his cut lip and licked the blood off his thumb. “I’m not Angelus,” he said.

“But … you didn’t, did you?” Spike persisted. He’d beg if he had to. “With … with Riley?”

He waited, in a grey space, where nothing mattered; nothing could bring the colours back, except the answer to this one question.

“No,” Angel finally conceded. “I didn’t.”

Spike looked away for a moment, collecting himself; breathing noisily. Then he slapped Angel, hard, but open-handed, on the less-damaged side of his face.

He swallowed down a last sob. “You ’ad me there, you big Irish cunt,” he said. “You’re a twisted son-of-a-bitch, you know?”

“Someone might have mentioned it,” Angel said mildly. “And I’m not Angelus.”

“Could have bloody fooled me,” Spike muttered.

He didn’t want to look at the mess he’d made of Angel’s face, and he didn’t want Angel to see _his_ face either, but Angel put a hand on his cheek and forced him to engage.

“Your boy wouldn’t have gone for it, even if I had tried anything,” he said seriously. “Which I didn’t!” He raised a hand theatrically, in case Spike tried to hit him again. “He’s way too hung up on you – surely you know that.”

Spike tried to school his features.

Angel passed a hand ruefully over his face. “Ow. I wonder if there’s a place that isn’t bruised.”

“Well you bleedin’ well asked for it!” Despite his words, Spike found it in himself to feel a bit ashamed. “What did you expect?”

“Exactly what I got,” Angel said, rubbing his jaw. “What anyone would expect from a man without a soul. Are you really gonna go back there now – after this?”

That hit a nerve. “Only did what anyone would have,” Spike said.

“You think?”

Spike didn’t answer.

“You say you can control your demon. But is it worth the risk? Can you really trust yourself?”

“We’ve been through all this,” Spike said, under his breath.

“You think you can fit in. Maybe you can – for a while. But before long, someone’s sure to rub you up the wrong way, like I just did. If you’re lucky it’ll be a casual worker – someone who won’t get missed too easily. Riley will say they moved on, or had an accident. And if a couple of redneck townies go missing, he’ll cover for you – swear you were with him – of course he will. But then maybe it’ll be a member of his family that catches you on an off-day …”

Spike shook his head, but when he looked at Angel’s face – what he’d done to it, and how serious Angel was – how concerned _for him_ – even after the beating he’d given him, Spike was shaken.

And Angel pressed on. “Do you want to be the thing Riley’s scared to leave alone with his folks – or worse, the thing that killed them? That he has to put down like a dog – if he can? And if he can’t – what then? You’ll kill him, or turn him. Then it’ll be Prague all over again. They’ll stake you out to burn – Riley too if you’ve made him one of us.” Angel licked blood off his lips and pushed himself up onto his elbows. “Who will be able to come to your rescue then?”

Angel’s face didn’t show it – didn’t show anything much, it was such a mess of injuries – but Spike knew that Angel would be unhappy – very unhappy – if that happened. He could hear it in his voice and see it in his eyes.

Suddenly tired, Spike shook his head, dismissing everything. “Fuck off.”

“That’s your answer?”

“’S’all I got.” Spike stood up, and put a hand out to Angel, who gave him a look, and allowed Spike to haul him upright.

“Anyway –” Spike said: “– s’not like anyone else could ever piss me off this much – get under my skin like you can.”

“Really?” Angel looked torn between surprise and pride.

“You know it.” Spike lay down on the bed, crossed his legs at the ankles and looked sidelong at Angel. “I knew you were bloody lying anyway – ’bout Riley.”

“You did?” Angel said, touching his face again. “So –”

“Sure I did.” Spike reached for a cigarette and grinned sheepishly. “He_ is so, _ bloody good in a fight.” Spike pointed his cigarette at Angel’s face. “’S’not only my opinion. All the demons at that bar thought _you_ were_ his_ sidekick.”

“They said that?” Angel seemed genuinely put out.

“Damn straight.” Spike said.

Angel huffed disconsolately, rubbing his jaw. He went out for a moment, and returned with two mugs of blood, one of which he took over to where Spike was still crashed out on the bed. Spike pushed himself up on his elbows and took a long drink, while Angel sipped his own.

Angel smiled, a bit bemused. “You really did think Riley would have gone for it, didn’t you?”

“No!” Spike spluttered, spitting blood.

“You _did!_” Angel said. “You should have more confidence.”

Spike wrinkled his nose, uneasy; waiting. “So … what’s the punch-line?”

Angel shook his head. “No. No punch-line.”

“Huh.”

For a while, Spike let his mind wander. Then he turned on his side, propping his head on his hand, and said, “Hey, remember that time with the roses?”

_“No!” _ The vehemence of Angel’s response gave him the lie.

Spike grinned slyly. “You must remember!”

“No I don’t.” Angel looked shifty.

“Yeah, you do.”

“I was drunk.”

“No, you weren’t. Not the whole time. But I’ll remind you anyway,” Spike said. “That poncy Mrs Frobisher had –”

“Frobisher-Jenkins-Huxtable,” Angel corrected him.

“See? I knew you remembered,” Spike said. “Anyway, it was at that poncey flower show. She’d made such implications about Darla in front of ’er toffee-nosed mates that you swore you’d kill her, but only after you’d beaten her in the next competition, so she wouldn’t win three in a row, and no one’d remember her after she was dead.”

“Okay, I remember, don’t remind me –”

“So you spent months reading up on horticulture by day and gardening at night –” Spike ploughed on: “– growing these bloody perfect roses like the anally retentive git you are –”

“Am not!”

“– so me bein’ the helpful bloke –”

“– whipped –” Angel corrected Spike.

“– okay, whipped, sometimes literally –” Spike agreed amiably: “– bloke I was, I decided to help out – give you a night off. And I must have given ’em too much water or put the horse manure in the wrong place. Killed the bleedin’ lot of ’em. And you were so narked –”

“I know what I did. I’m sorry, okay? Stop already.”

Spike took pity on him – a little anyway – and spared him the details. Rolling onto his back, he muttered, as if to himself, “Couldn’t bloody sit down or ’ave a wank for a week when you were done with those rose stems.”

Angel made an apologetic whimpering sound, and Spike smiled to himself. He shifted around, getting more comfortable.

It was nice to lie down.

“I know where this is going, Spike. You’re going to tell me what I just did to you was worse than what I did back then.”

“Actually, no. The roses – that was bloody painful. Even some of the thorns had thorns on them.” Spike glanced at Angel – who was looking a bit pale, even for him – then closed his eyes, just pretending to be a sleep.

“Well, I’m sorry anyway. About –”

Spike opened one eye. “Hey. It was one of those things made ’em invent that saying, ‘we laugh about it now’.”

Angel tried it out. “‘We laugh about it now’.” He looked uncertainly at Spike. “We do?”

“Sure we do.” Spike closed his eyes again – only for a moment.

Bed was the place to be.

People should spend more time there.

“Spike, I wish I could –”

“Don’ even try, Ange. You ’eard the Green Man. Forgiv’n. Besides. Made a man out of me.” He smiled lop-sidedly. “Damn near made a woman out of me.”

Angel looked pained.

“We laugh about it now, remember?” Spike admonished him.

Was his speech sounding a little slurred?

“So –” Angel said. “Hey! Did you just call me ‘Ange’?”

Spike frowned. “Maybe.”

Mustn’t do _that_ again.

“Feeling a bit less ‘demon-y’ then, Spike?”

“Somewhat,” Spike said, yawning.

“Gonna finish that off for me?” Angel indicated his own mug.

“Don’ mind if I do.”

Spike pushed himself up, just far enough to reach it. Not expecting it to be so full, he slopped a little onto the floor, then glanced quizzically at Angel and downed the contents in one. He gazed at the empty mug for a while, appreciating the lines and form of it. Perfect for its function. Drinking … blood …

Drinking blood with his old enem– … old mate, Angel.

All things considered, life wasn’t too bad.

He wouldn’t kill today.

~~

Angel watched as Spike drifted off to sleep.

He shook his head.

For all Spike’s bluster – his defensiveness – the boy had always had been too trusting for his own good.

Angel looked around the room, located Spike’s cell-phone and pocketed it. He considered the pack of cigarettes, but left them. Spike had to have something to do with his hands later …

He walked quietly over to the bedside, looked down on Spike, and realised that he was still in game-face. Hardly surprising, considering what he’d been through today. What he – Angel – had put him through. Even now, it wasn’t over – not quite yet.

The ridged brow and fangs made Spike look strangely vulnerable, like an anxious child, unable to shake off his cares even in sleep.

Tunelessly, Angel crooned a few lines that came into his head.

_“Oh you are a mucky kid,  
Dirty as a dustbin lid.  
When he hears the things you did –”_

He hesitated before finishing the verse, more quietly, his voice cracking slightly;

_“– You'll gerra belt from your Da’.” _

Spike shifted uneasily.

Angel stroked the backs of his fingers across the ridges on Spike’s forehead, and whispered one word: “Sorry.”

At his touch, Spike made a soft sound and the demon subsided, leaving his face relaxed and smooth.

~~

**Day 9: Friday 2nd February – afternoon.**

Despite Angel’s invitation to return to work, Wesley had yet to do so. When he and Riley had got back from Caritas on that memorable night, they had rather foolishly carried on drinking until dawn. As a result, Wesley had been somewhat relieved to receive a call from Harmony later that morning – even though it had woken him up to a blinding headache – telling him not to return to work until Saturday, because Angel would be ‘busy with Spike’ until then.

Reluctant to explore what ‘busy with Spike’ might mean – either for himself or for Riley – Wesley had pushed it firmly to the back of his mind.

He’d spent Wednesday nursing his hangover, and Thursday keeping Riley – who was shivering in his sleeping bag, but nevertheless refused point-blank to deprive Wesley of his bed – supplied with fluids.

Riley’s stoicism filled Wesley with admiration: and not just in relation to his indisposition. While the man occasionally cast an anxious glance at his phone, or checked that it was fully charged, he appeared to have no thought of badgering Spike with constant calls to enquire about his well-being.

When Wesley went so far as to comment on his self-restraint, Riley admitted to having made a single call while Wesley had popped out on Thursday; but even this seemed to show super-human will-power.

By Friday afternoon, the itch to know how things were progressing finally overcame Wesley’s natural reticence. After all, he hadn’t promised to wait for a call from anyone had he? And he did have a professional interest in Spike: which was just a euphemism for being damn nosey.

“So, Angel – how did the operation go?”

“Good. It went good.”

That was … evasive.

“And Spike? How is he now?”

“He’s fine. He’s been up and about, but he’s sleeping again. Not quite ready to face the world yet.”

“I imagine not. Even vampires must need a bit of time to recover from brain surgery.”

“Yes, absolutely,” Angel said, though his reply was somewhat lacking in conviction. “I’m surprised Riley hasn’t been bugging me for information. He’s still with you isn’t he?”

Wesley glanced at Riley, asleep in his cocoon, with his mouth open so that he could breathe: poor chap.

“Yes, but he’s been sleeping solidly for quite a while. He seems to have a touch of flu or something. I can wake him if Spike –”

“No, leave him be,” Angel said hastily. “Last time I saw him, he looked like he needed all the sleep he could get.”

“Well, call me if you need anything,” Wesley replied.

As he replaced the phone on its stand, he wondered whether there was something a bit odd about Angel’s manner, but he couldn’t quite pin down what was bothering him. He shrugged it off. Having only just been invited to return to work, he was reluctant to start questioning his employer too deeply.

No doubt all would become clear in the fullness of time.

Things usually did.

~~

**Friday – dusk.**

Raven examined her face in the cloakroom mirror. Yes, there were fine lines around her eyes which would never disappear, but it wasn’t too late for her. She was still firm in all the important places; in reasonable shape to face eternity.

She could feel Drusilla’s presence at her back, though she couldn’t see her.

Drusilla.

She’d guessed right: having only one name was a vampire thing.

‘Rebecca Lowell’: that had been her name, once; but soon she would be forever Raven.

Drinking blood really wasn’t so bad. She’d been getting herself used to it since that scare Angel had given her, and had spent many nights – too many – hanging around in Goth clubs, listening to their dismal music, and hoping to meet the real thing once again. It was disappointing to find that this one, too, was insane; still, at least Drusilla didn’t seem to be carrying around all that moral baggage, or to have any qualms about turning her.

If only she’d get on with it.

“Do we _have_ to wait?” Raven pleaded. “Can’t we do it now?”

“Tch! Tch! You forget yourself Dearie. The boys are still tucked up like bugs in rugs. Like pigs in blankets. We have to wait till they come out to play.”

“Oh, why must we?” Raven turned and shamelessly ran her finger down Drusilla’s décolletage.

Drusilla rewarded her with a low, throaty giggle. “Naughty dolly! But you have to wait for playtime. Then we can all run and catch. Four legs good, eight legs better …”

Raven mentally rolled her eyes. She sincerely hoped these ‘boys’ – if they existed at all – were more compos mentis than Drusilla; otherwise ‘forever’ was going to seem a very long time indeed.

~~

When Angel went back down to the basement, he found Spike still out for the count. That was fortunate. He’d rehearsed some bullshit excuses in his head – about why Spike had slept so long, and why he wasn’t being let out just yet – but if Spike had been awake, he was sure to have been suspicious.

Angel looked at his watch. Cordelia’s plane would be landing about now, so it would soon be show-time. He tested the basement door with his shoulder; it was solid enough to hold Spike until Harmony arrived to let him out.

Spike looked so peaceful it seemed a shame to disturb him, but Angel’s mind was made up. This was for the best. He took a case out of his pocket, removed a hypo, and stuck it in Spike’s neck.

That should make him feel more lively.

~~

This time, when Spike awoke, he was alone. He rolled and stretched, gathering his thoughts.

There’d been some whacky dreams – lots of blood in them, and for a change it wasn’t his. He felt almost euphoric, and hungry; and the world was out there waiting for him to take it on.

As he checked himself over, he noticed a sore spot on the side of his neck, and wondered what had caused it; but then, there were sore spots all over him. No reason this one should bother him any more than the rest.

The state of his injuries from fighting the old man told him that he’d slept for about a day. Rough confirmation was provided by the feeling – certainty actually – that the sun was going down. It wasn’t really anything physical; just a general sense that it was time to be up and doing.

Not that ‘up’ seemed to be a problem right now.

He rubbed a hand over himself, thrusting against the pressure, and letting a rumbling moan escape him; getting ready to give himself some much-needed attention, as he contemplated all the things he was gonna do to Riley when he got out.

Give him a right good seeing-to, he would; get one back and all, with any luck.

He’d already got his belt buckle undone when he gave himself a mental shake. Why was he wasting time on such shenanigans when Riley was waiting for him in the gorgeous living flesh?

Okay then!

Spike leapt off the bed, across the basement and up the steps – only to find that he was locked in. He thumped the door with his fist.

The trouble with a door at the top of a flight of stairs is that it’s damn near impossible to get a good hefty kick at it; nowhere to plant your standing leg. That wasn’t part of the plan – well, not his plan anyway. Clearly it was part of Angel’s plan, whatever that might be.

He wasn’t alarmed; miffed, yes, but nothing more: not yet anyway. Angel could have killed him while he slept if that was what he’d wanted. This was just some last little thing of Angel’s. Maybe he wanted another go-round. Git might have asked him first.

Spike hammered on the door with his forearm, more for the sake of working off some excess energy than in the genuine hope of doing any damage, or getting let out.

Then he remembered that despite the fact that he was imprisoned underground – and when was that going to stop happening to him? – this wasn’t the Dark Ages. He looked around the place for his mobile.

But that, too, turned out to be a waste of time.

Must have dropped it, or maybe left it in his coat upstairs when he came down for the op. That was a pisser – he couldn’t even call Riley and … no, wait. He’d _had_ the phone down here. He’d spoken to Riley on it earlier … yesterday.

It had to be here.

Spike spent half an hour searching every inch – every corner – of the basement, but it was fruitless. Angel must have swiped the damn thing. ‘Or mistaken it for his own’, said the voice of reason.

True, the old duffer wasn’t much for new-fangled gadgets – probably couldn’t tell a fax machine from a photocopier – but its absence was definitely suspicious. Perhaps Angel had been called out on some mission and had needed a phone for it.

Yeah.

Nothing to worry about.

His stomach was growling, but it wasn’t a problem either.

Someone’d come down looking for him: Genevieve, wanting to make sure he was okay, or Harmony, hoping to play some childish game and maybe cop a feel.

But it was the weekend and all.

Harmony would be out partying and would probably have taken Gen with her. Riley – well, he’d be waiting for a phone call, like he’d promised.

Somewhat disconsolate, Spike slumped down onto the bed. He lay flat on his back and smoked one of the cigarettes he’d found while searching for his phone. It didn’t do much to take his mind off the grumbling in his belly, which was getting more insistent.

This was getting boring.

Maybe there _was_ time for shenanigans after all. With one ear listening out for anyone coming to the door, he undid his fly and set about jerking off.

He went to that place in his head. He’d never taken Riley there, but he thought of it as _their_ place: a secluded clearing in the woods he’d once come upon in Epping Forest when he’d taken a day off from his studies – in the days when he’d still been able to go out in daylight.

Sunlight played through the leaves; Riley’s horse stood watch among the long grass, and Riley was waiting for him, bare-arsed in those chaps of soft black leather that he’d worn for him that one time – bent over, braced against a fallen tree, offering himself with such sweet humility it made Spike hard just to look into his eyes; and he’d go to the man and lay hands on that warm, welcoming body wherever he wanted – use him how he liked until Riley would beg Spike to fuck him, and come, shouting his name to the blue sky.

Spike was just bringing himself nicely to the edge when a foul contamination trickled into his thoughts: Angel’s voice saying softly, ‘there’s nowhere I haven’t been.’

It tied his guts in knots.

He knew it wasn’t true, but as he tried to get the mood back – as he made love to Riley in his mind – it was Angel’s name his partner cried out.

Spike’s game-face came roaring to the surface, and the next few painful minutes were spent kicking shit out of the metal bed-frame.

It was a lie – of course it was; Angel had said as much. Angelus – yes, that twisted bastard would have had Riley out of spite if he could, but Angel? They were over that petty rivalry weren’t they? Riley wasn’t Angel’s type; too broad and tall and self-possessed, and not quite blond enough. Angel wasn’t Riley’s type either. Spike didn’t know what Riley’s type was, if it wasn’t him, but he was damn sure Angel wasn’t it.

Still: it hurt to contemplate it.

He shook it off.

Might have broken a toe, but it had to be done.

The old man had better not have laid a finger on Riley …

Then Spike did jerk off, to thoughts of the very different kinds of things he’d do to Angel, should he ever cross _that_ line in the sand.

~~

Friday Night

Cordelia arrived back like a whirlwind.

“Why did you have to bring me back so soon?” she demanded, and slammed the door behind her. “I was just getting acclimated.”

“You’re late,” Angel said. “And Hawaii’s climate’s not that much different to ours.”

“I meant acclimated to the heady atmosphere of genuine Five Star hotels, where the air is fragrant with money. And more importantly, acclimated to _not _working.”

“Sorry – but I need your help …” Angel began staring at Cordelia’s feet. “Nice shoes …” he said, then added quickly: “– with Spike.”

But for once, Angel’s cunning footwear-noticing ploy failed to divert her attention.

“Spike’s still here?” Cordelia looked around wildly. She rummaged in her bag, pulled out her big wooden cross, and held it in front of her. “Where is the little bleached Cockney? What’s he done? And why me, Angel?” she said, adding plaintively: “I’m not the Slayer, remember?”

“I don’t need your help fighting him,” Angel assured her. “And anyway, he’s not dangerous.”

At Cordelia’s raised eyebrow, Angel did a double-take. Since when did he think Spike wasn’t dangerous? “You won’t have to see him – I just want you to do a little acting job for me. It’s not …”

Cordelia was staring at him.

“What?”

“Jeez, what happened? You walk into a door? In hell?”

Angel touched his cheek. A whole day had gone by since Spike had pummelled his face, but it still felt pretty messed-up.

“Just a little rough-housing,” he said, shuffling his feet.

“With Spike?”

“Yeah,” Angel conceded.

“Who isn’t dangerous,” Cordelia said. “Okay!” she breezed, without waiting for an answer. “But if I get killed, you do know you’ll have me_ and _Dennis haunting you for eternity, don’t you?”

“Thanks Cordy.”

“You’re welcome,” she replied, with barely a trace of irony. “Now, what part is it you want me to play?”

~~

“It’s this way,” Angel said, as he ushered Cordelia towards one of the first floor bedrooms.

She paused on the threshold. “Wait a minute. Is that Spike’s coat?”

She glanced around, taking in the debris Angel had strewn around; the cigarette packet, the half-empty mug of congealed blood, and the British newspaper open at ‘Dear Deidre.’

“I’m in Spike’s room!” She looked accusingly at Angel. “Spike has a room! At this hotel! And I’m in it!” She clapped a hand to her forehead. “How do I let you talk me into these things?”

“Don’t worry. He’s in the basement just now,” Angel said, with great economy. “He won’t be coming near you, I guarantee it.”

“So … you want me to pretend to be dead, in Spike’s room.”

Cordelia eyed him with suspicion. “First of all, why? And second of all, when you said ‘acting’, I thought it might be something a bit more challenging than just lying down. I could have stayed in Hawaii to do that.” She frowned and added, “On the beach, I mean.”

“Sorry,” Angel said, avoiding the ‘why?’ in her first bullet point. “But it’ll be easy! That’s a good thing, right? You don’t really have to do any acting at all – I have a special formula to give you … you just have to –”

“You’re drugging me,” Cordelia said, shooting tiny eye-daggers at him. “You don’t think I’m good enough of an actress _to play dead, _ so you’re drugging me.”

“They’re not _just_ drugs,” Angel said. “It’s partly mystical –”

“You’re giving me magic drugs! And that’s supposed to make me feel better?”

“It’s got to be convincing,” Angel said, then groaned inwardly at Cordelia’s look of reproach. Both feet now firmly wedged in his mouth, he ploughed on bravely, “The … person I’m trying to fool –”

“Riley,” Cordelia interjected.

“– okay, yes, Riley –” Angel raised his hands in supplication. Cordy was more perceptive than he’d given her credit for. “He might check your pulse or your temperature.”

“So, you’re going to stop my heart,” Cordelia said, with weary acceptance. “That’s nice.”

“Not completely.” Angel studied his feet to avoid seeing Cordy’s face. “It’ll just look like that.”

“What’s all this about, Angel?”

She asked so candidly that Angel felt really bad about lying, but Cordelia might not co-operate if she knew the truth.

“I … I don’t think Riley should risk taking Spike home. Not without the chip. I want to convince him that Spike’s too dangerous.”

“That’s harsh, Angel,” Cordelia said.

Well, that was unexpected. Maybe he’d got it wrong: again. “I thought you hated Spike?”

“I do. He terrorised me, and my school – you know that. You were there. I had to hide in a broom closet! With Willow! I even prayed!” She pondered for a moment. “But tricking poor Riley like that …”

“This wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that you just don’t want Spike hanging around_ here_, would it?”

“Absolutely not!” Cordelia said. “Like I’d allow that anyway! Fine! Give me the pill or stick a needle in me – just get it over with.”

“Thanks Cordy.” With an apologetic wince, Angel picked up a glass from the nightstand. The contents looked like green algae. He held it out towards her. “You have to –”

“Ew!” Cordelia took the glass, regarded it balefully while holding it at arm’s length, then shrugged, and knocked it back in one. “I suppose you’re going to cover me in fake blood now,” she said, yawning as she sat down on the bed.

Well, she’d taken that possibility better than he’d expected. “Something like that.”

“You’ll be stuck with the cleaning bill, Mister. And I’d better wake up from this okay, or …” Cordelia collapsed with a soft sigh.

Angel took her by the ankles and swung her legs up onto the bed.

As she drifted deeper into unconsciousness, he checked her pulse, and felt it slow, to almost nothing. He stuck some fake wounds made of silicon onto her neck, and carefully dribbled some blood over them with a paintbrush, so that it appeared to have come from the wounds. Then he ripped her white shirt, and splattered some more blood over it.

_That_ was going to cost him.

He thought he’d got it about right, but when he stood back to admire his handiwork, he cursed himself. It had been such a relief that Cordelia had gone along with his – already rather clunky – plan, that he’d forgotten to ask her to actually do some acting before passing out.

Simulating terror shouldn’t have been beyond her, considering her wealth of real life experience – but right now, she just looked peaceful, and not a bit like someone who’d just been fighting for her life, and lost.

So that his oversight wouldn’t be too obvious, he turned her head away from the door and arranged her arms and legs askew, to look like she’d put up some resistance.

He put an empty Jack Daniels bottle on its side in the corner, as though it had been casually thrown there. Then he threw Spike’s cell-phone on the floor, visible but not too obvious. For good measure, he dropped a couple of cigarette butts, and ground them into the carpet.

As he went through the various steps on his mental checklist, memories drifted through his mind like unwelcome ghosts; memories of times when his demon had wanted – needed – to get an emotional response from someone, almost as much as it needed blood. Sometimes all it took was something simple: a beloved pet nailed to a door, or the merest hint that the feared Angelus was there waiting in the shadows unseen: waiting for a time of his own choosing.

Sometimes it was more complex, like the family party he’d arranged for Drusilla: her mother and sisters taking tea together – cake and eggs and honey – only not.

Jenny Calendar had been the last. He remembered the insane delight his demon had taken, in the devastation that his tableau wreaked on those he’d once considered allies, if not friends; and on Buffy.

It made him want to cry, or to rip the heart out of his chest. But this was no time for agonising over the past. He had to focus on the task in hand – a very different task.

This time, he was making life look like death.

It was dark already.

He removed the bulb from the central light fitting, and pulled the cord that switched on the standard lamp in the corner. That would cast just enough light to see, but not enough to see anything very clearly. As an afterthought he smashed the bedside lamp on the floor: another sign that there had been a struggle.

The scene wouldn’t stand up to much scrutiny, but that was kind-of the point. If Riley was the kind of guy who was going to act first and ask questions later, it would be enough.

Then, Angel knew, he’d have to stay sharp.

He checked his watch and went to look over the balcony, to make sure that Harmony was ready for his word to go. She nodded to him and went back to buffing her nails.

Then he called Riley’s number.

~~

Riley was just waking up – yawning and stretching – when Wesley came out of his room, rubbing his eyes.

“Hey, Wes. Been taking a catnap?”

“Oh, yes. I was reading, but then I came over all drowsy and thought I’d put my head down for a few minutes.” Wesley pulled his dressing gown around him. “Feeling any better?”

“Yes, much better, thanks. Has anyone –”

“No. I called in to check a few hours ago, and Angel said Spike was sleeping. Tea?”

Before Riley could reply, the phone rang – Angel’s ring-tone. Riley dived for it, and landed on the floor, in a tangle of legs and sleeping bag.

Wesley passed him the phone, and went to put the kettle on.

“Angel?”

The news that Spike had gone was an ice-pick to the skull, but when Angel said: “And there’s worse” – that was when Riley got really pissed.

_   
**“Tell me!” **   
_

“You won’t believe me. Just come. It’s … I’ll be in Spike’s room.”

“This had better be good Angel –”

“It’s not.”

“I’m on my way. Don’t –” Leaving Angel to fill in the blank, Riley cut him off.

He struggled out of his sleeping bag, and into the nearest items of clothing he could find.

“What’s going on?” Wesley said.

“I don’t know, but I need your bike,” he told Wesley, as he pulled on a coat.

Unquestioningly, Wesley picked the keys out of a bowl by the door, and tossed them to him. “If you care to wait for me –”

“Sorry Wes, I can’t.”

Riley crashed out of the door, and as he pounded down the stairs, he heard Wes calling after him – “I’ll follow on, post-haste.”

~~

“So, I don’t understand. The guy you say is going to bite me is in this old hotel. And he’s not crazy.” Raven shivered. “So, why don’t we go in?”

“Don’t question your new mummy, silly little girl,” Drusilla said tartly.

“But we do have a deal, don’t we?” Raven insisted. “You’ll keep your promise?”

“Promises, promises! They’re like bees! Try too hard to grab them and –”

Drusilla pinched Raven’s cheek, hard. “Oh, dear … there’s red on your face.”

She licked the blood that welled where her nails had punctured the skin.

The girl smelled a little nervous now, so Drusilla stretched out her hand, and yanked the pretty creature into her arms, holding her with an iron grip round her waist, while the other hand tilted her chin at a most delightful angle.

“Now we’re all ready!” she said cheerfully, tightening her grip. “Now, we wait like little mice with no tails.”

~~

Riley roared up to the back entrance of the Hyperion, swung himself off the bike, pelted through the garden to the door, and flung it wide. Seeing no one in the lobby, he moved rapidly but quietly through the hotel, and almost flew up the stairs and down the hallway to Spike’s room.

Angel was standing in the doorway, looking sombre. He simply said, “Cordelia” – and gestured for Riley to look inside the poorly-lit room. “She works … used to work for me. Before Spike …”

His heart pounding, Riley went in. He tried to make sense of what he saw … lying on Spike’s bed.

A tanned, dark-haired woman: cheerleader-build. There was blood on her, and she wasn’t breathing. He felt her forehead with the back of his hand; it was cold. He felt her neck and could detect no pulse.

There were conspicuous bite-marks on her throat, but – aware of Angel watching him from the doorway – Riley didn’t submit them to detailed examination. It was too dark anyway, but they looked … wrong. Spike had never left marks on _him_ like that.

And if Spike were responsible, wouldn’t Angel already be trying to track him down?

Angel had told him Spike had fled, but that wasn’t true. Riley could sense that Spike was nearby, and there was no feeling of fear or excitement coming from him. If anything, he was slightly annoyed; and more than that, he was hungry. If he’d just killed and drained one of Angel’s human employees, he wouldn’t be hungry, and he sure as hell wouldn’t have stuck around.

Maybe Angel had killed Cordelia, and was trying to blame it on Spike.

It was also possible that this scene was a set-up; the woman might not even be dead; she could be a vampire, or some demon that was cold to touch, with blood spattered on her.

It seemed as though Angel was trying to get him to kill Spike. But why? It didn’t make sense …

Perhaps the way to find out was to play along. Putting on his best action-packed voice, Riley said, “He can’t have got far!” Then he pulled out a stake – making sure Angel saw it – and careened past Angel and along the passageway.

He heard Angel following hot on his heels.

~~

By the time Harmony unlocked the door, Spike was so bored and frustrated that he wasn’t even slightly embarrassed about the rolled up sheet in the corner. He’d smoked all but two of his cigarettes, and he was ravenous.

“’Bout bloody time!” he growled, pushing past her, snorting and waving a hand in front of his face to clear the perfume from his nose.

“You’re welcome!” Harmony said with an audible eye-roll, and clattered up the stairs after him as fast as her pumps would allow. “I had to come back from the club because I forgot my lipstick,” she volunteered.

“Don’t care.”

“Then I heard all the banging from the basement.”

Spike turned sharply. “What d’you mean?”

Surely she can’t have heard … No: he hadn’t made_ that_ much noise!

“I gave up hammering on the door hours ago,” he said. “How come it’s taken you this long to let me out?”

“Oh!”

And you could almost hear the wheels turning in her pretty head.

“Well, then, you were just lucky I … made a mistake,” she said finally. “I guess.”

“Well, good. Thanks. If you see Angel, tell him I went to see Riley.”

Spike began making his way across the lobby towards the front doors, but Harmony grabbed him by the arm.

“There’s fresh blood in the fridge! O-Pos!”

“Is there now?” Spike eyed her with suspicion. “Well isn’t that convenient, because I just happen to be very hungry.”

He rubbed the side of his neck again, and shrugged. He _was_ hungry, and blood was blood. Talking of … here was something he ought to remember about blood; something he’d been thinking about when he was falling asleep – but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

Heading for the kitchen, he heard a familiar riff coming from Harmony’s portable CD player. She’d somehow managed to persuade Angel she needed it, to while away her shifts as she waited by the phone to confuse and alienate potential clients.

“’The Clash’?” he said, cocking his head. He turned the dial up to maximum, then winced, and compromised at half-volume. Spotting the CD case that lay nearby he said, “This is that mix His Highness bought me, to keep me out of his hair. You don’t like this kind of stuff.”

Harmony looked genuinely affronted. “What? A girl can’t try to broaden her horizons?”

“Broaden your … what now?” Spike said, raising an eyebrow. “Parallel dimension again?”

She frowned. “I don’t think so.”

“Just checking.” Spike shrugged. “But if you can tell me – with a straight face – that you like –” he picked up the CD case and held it in both hands, displaying the cover to her: “‘Sniffin’ Glue; the Essential Punk Accessory’, you can keep it, okay?”

Harmony’s expression flickered between ‘disgusted’ and ‘genuinely touched.’

Shaking his head, Spike went to the fridge, where he found a mug of blood that was – for some reason – already poured. He warmed it for twenty seconds, and downed it in one.

It tasted a bit off.

He turned to leave, but Harmony – well, specifically her cleavage – was in his face.

“So. Spikey. Are you feeling alright?” She put her hand up to the back of his head. “How’s your poor brain?”

Spike removed her hand from his person like it was an alien brain slug. “My ‘poor brain’ as you call it – and may I just add, ‘pot: kettle’ – will be a lot better if you _**leave it sodding-well alone **_and let me get it some fresh air.”

He tried to push past her, but she dodged back into his path. And he didn’t mean to shove her out of the way quite as roughly as he did, but even so, she landed in a heap on the floor.

“Spike, you’re so mean!”

And he felt mean. It wasn’t a nice feeling; but_ she _didn’t have to know that.

“Am I? Well, Harm, I just had brain surgery, so I think I’m entitled to be a tad cranky. Maybe when they took the chip out, they accidentally removed my ability to tolerate Californian ditzes along with it. No, wait – I never had one of those.”

But Harmony was still on the floor, looking up at him with hurt-puppy eyes. It was a little more than he could take, so he offered a hand and ungraciously hauled her to her feet.

“What day is it?” he said, in a more conciliatory tone. “It still Friday?”

“Well duh!” She glanced surreptitiously at her watch. “You want me to warm some more blood for you, Spike?” she said sweetly.

Now that _was_ suspicious. He’d just practically thrown the bint on the floor and she was still trying to nursemaid him? He _was _very hungry. Okay, he’d been under the knife, and then scrapping with the old man, but he was hungrier than seemed reasonable given how much of the good stuff he’d knocked back since the operation.

It occurred to him that he wasn’t completely in control – felt slightly intoxicated in fact – though that didn’t seem terribly important at the moment.

Then, as Spike looked at the mug on the drainer, he remembered: Angel had given him drugged blood: knocked him out. And he’d just drunk another dodgy mug-full, though probably – by the taste of it – different drugs.

“Angel put you up to this?” he demanded.

“No!” Harmony folded her arms, pushing her chest up. “Up to what?” She widened her eyes.

“You’re a crap liar, Harm.”

It was Angelus’ usual trick – the old bait-and-switch. The blood in the fridge was the bait, and Harmony was the back-up. But what was it supposed to be distracting him from? What was Angel up to now?

Spike shook his head. “Give it up, Harm, you’ve been rumbled,” he told her. “I’ll let the boss know you made a decent fist of it. Just tell me what’s up – how long were you meant to keep me here?”

“I don’t know what you mean, Spike.” She clasped her hands behind her back.

Great: more gratuitous boob shots.

Actually …

Harmony’s eyes flicked to the clock on the wall. “Oh, and I thought I saw Riley outside –” she said.

Spike shook his head and pushed past her.

Was Riley outside, or was this just some new diversion? It had seemed like Harmony had been told to keep him talking – keep him in the kitchen – but now it seemed she wanted him to leave.

Spike knew Angel’s methods. But Angel knew that he knew them. Just because Harmony said it – just because Angel might have told her to say it – didn’t necessarily mean it wasn’t true. It could be one of those double-bluffs. Or …

All of which added up to a whole lot of ‘what-the-fuck’s-goin’-on?’

Best take a look outside anyway – just in case.

~~

As Spike stepped out onto the path, he felt a rush of … something. He felt different … powerful. He was still hungry, and he _really_ wanted to see Riley Finn; but first he was just gonna stand here and breathe in the night; the darkness. A haze of euphoria overcame him. The chip was gone. Everything was starting to come right at last. He felt relaxed and ready for it.

Cars flashed past outside the gates but here in the garden, the night held its breath.

Something familiar disturbed the air: a fragrance of the past.

Oh.

There was Drusilla.

She was standing with her back to him, looking coyly over her shoulder.

She’d come back for him.

It was right.

The night belonged to their kind.

“I brought a pretty bird to see you,” she said in her little-girl voice.

“Not another one, Dru,” he replied tolerantly. He glanced around to see if she’d brought a birdcage. “You know you can’t keep them.”

Her laughter bubbled from the depths like a mountain spring. “I can keep this one.”

When Drusilla turned to face him, Spike saw that she was holding a woman tight in her arms, and the woman was alive. Her heart was beating fast as a bird’s alright, but she didn’t seem as afraid of Drusilla as she should, even though Dru wasn’t hiding her true face.

The two of them exchanged a confidential glance. The girl’s heart kicked up still higher. “Do it,” she said.

Drusilla swiped a claw across her throat and tossed her towards Spike as though she weighed nothing, and Spike caught her without a second thought. She lay limp and unresisting in his arms, tilting her head.

“Drink …” she said.

Something wasn’t right.

This wasn’t why he’d come out here … to drink some little stick woman whose head was too big for her body. He’d been looking for something: something better; something golden.

Looking for Riley Finn.

He took a deep breath, drawing in the fresh scent of the girl’s blood; it swamped his senses, by-passing rational thought.

He’d find Riley … he would … in a minute.

Just have a bite to eat first.

He sank his fangs into the pale flesh of the woman’s neck, and when the blood hit the back of his throat, hot and sweet, he dug in further, closing his eyes.

There was a crash behind him. He swung round, still buried deep in the woman’s veins, as Riley slammed through the Hyperion doors.

_   
**“SPIKE!” **   
_

Spike opened his eyes, and saw Riley was standing there, looking at him with such dismay, it made him choke on the blood as it went down.

Angel was right behind Riley: deep shock painted on his face.

Spike tore out of the woman’s throat and let her fall.

She moaned, and tried to crawl up his body; he pushed her away from him.

“Drink me,” she begged him, dragging herself towards him. “You haven’t taken enough.”

“Get away from me!” Spike growled, backing away. “Little idiot. Are you insane?”

The woman’s hand pawed the air, then fell limply to her side. She sank back to the paving, losing consciousness.

Drusilla’s eyes flared with anger. “You broke my new toy!” She went towards her bloody puppet where it lay on the ground, its strings cut. “Now I’ll have to mend it myself.” She stooped to put her own lips to the girl’s neck.

Before she could take one drop, a taxi screeched to a halt, and Wesley leapt out of the cab, yelling, “Get away!”

Drusilla’s head snapped up. Her eyes darted to the crossbow in Wesley’s hand.

Spike knew for a fact that she could snatch a crossbow bolt out of the air, but she’d have to concentrate to be sure of it, and now – roused from their shocked immobility – Angel and Riley started uncertainly towards Drusilla, and both had a stake drawn. But it wasn’t until Wesley used his free hand to draw a revolver, and fired a warning shot above Drusilla’s head, that she surrendered her acolyte.

She turned a spiteful gaze on Spike. “No more chances,” she said disdainfully.

Then she flicked her fingers at them all, and melted into the shadows.

Spike took one look at the woman at his feet, and the stunned and anxious faces around him: faces of those who had expected – hoped for – better from him; faces of people he’d let down.

He wiped a hand across his mouth, turned on his heel and walked out of the gate.

~~

Riley knew he ought to help tend to the downed female, but Wesley had already removed his jacket, ripped the sleeve off his shirt, and wadded it to staunch the wound.

“You go,” Wesley said looking up at him as he pressed the pad to the woman’s neck. “We’ll deal with this.”

Pausing only to cast a look like thunder at Angel – who was already giving directions to an emergency operator – Riley took off after Spike.

He found him in the alley behind the hotel, hanging against the wall: a cigarette dangling from his lips. When he saw Riley, he took it out, held it cupped as if to avoid enemy fire, and blew out a plume of smoke.

“S’pose that’s the end of it then,” he said quietly, studying the burning tip of the cigarette; refusing to look at Riley. “Thought it’d be Angel came to finish it off. Didn’t think _you’d_ be up for it.”

Riley took a step and reached out towards him.

Spike flinched away. “Don’t want a Judas Kiss.” He sniffed, hard. “Just do it, okay?”

“You think I’ve come to kill you?” Riley couldn’t believe it.

“Well, haven’t you?”

“Are you crazy?”

“Don’t know. Dunno who or what I am any more. Angel was right all along. First day out, this is what happens.” Spike screwed his eyes tight shut and turned to face the wall, resting his head in the crook of his arm.

He pounded a fist against the bricks. “I _said_ I wasn’t gonna kill today. Promised myself.”

“And you didn’t,” Riley assured him. “She’s alive, Spike. She’ll need a transfusion. but Wesley’s taking care of her. You didn’t kill her.” He put a hand on Spike’s shoulder.

Spike shrugged him off. “I would have though – if you hadn’t showed up.”

“Even if you had, I couldn’t … I just –”

But Spike was barely listening. “All that line of crap I fed Wesley about bein’ in control. What must he think of me? And the old man? What must you think? And the worst thing – I fucking promised _**myself**_, Riley.”

Riley sighed deeply. “You made a mistake, Spike, that’s all. That woman? She must have been one of those vampire junkies. I heard what she said – she wanted you to drink.”

“I know what _she_ was,” Spike said, still addressing the wall. “But_ I’m_ old enough and ugly enough to have known better.”

He took the cigarette from his lips and ground it out beneath his boot. “Can’t even quit these things,” he said disgustedly. “I’ve failed. You. Me. Angel. Everybody.”

Riley threw his hands wide in frustration. “What are you, Mother Theresa already? So, you failed. So what! You know what Spike? It’s okay to fail. Everyone fails. We fail, and we try again. And I know it’s been said before, but the point isn’t whether you fail, it’s whether you got the guts, the heart to carry on trying.”

Spike turned round and slumped back against the brickwork. “But I could have killed that chit right in front of you.”

“You didn’t. I called your name, and you stopped.”

“Okay, so I stopped. This time. But it’s not like I’ve never killed before, and you won’t always be there to pull me back from the brink. How can I ask you to trust me, if I can’t trust myself?”

“You don’t have to ask,” Riley said. “You won’t hurt me. You could have killed me any time you wanted, any time you drank from me, I wouldn’t have stopped you – but you didn’t. You stopped yourself.”

“That was you. What if I start taking chunks out of your folks? Your mum? Al? They’re _food_ and I’m a _killer_.” Spike shook out his game-face and turned it on Riley. “Are you sure you want _this_ in your home?”

“My folks won’t be throwing themselves in front of you with open neck-wounds yelling, ‘drink me.’ And you won’t go hungry while I’m around.”

Riley noticed Spike scratching rather obsessively at his neck, and when he pulled Spike’s hand away, he saw the reason – a fresh puncture mark.

“You won’t be pumped full of god-knows-whatever Angel dosed you with either. He’s playing tricks on you – on all of us. He already tried to fool me into thinking you _had_ killed someone – a woman – ‘Cordelia’ I think he said.”

“Angel did _what?_” At first, Spike’s expression was one of blank incomprehension, but then he shook his head. “Makes no odds. I bit that girl, there’s no excuse for it.”

Well, they could stand here all night, picking over the same threadbare arguments until they were blue in the face, but it was late already and Riley was feeling very cold and tired. With shaking hands, he grabbed Spike by the shoulders and pulled him upright.

“You know what, Spike?” he said. “You’re really starting to get on my nerves!”

_   
**“‘Get on your nerves’?” **   
_

The mildness of the complaint seemed to astonish Spike more than anything else Riley had said. At least he was finally starting to pay attention, and Riley seized the opportunity.

“You and Angel – you’re as bad as each other. You think everything’s all about you – about vampires, and who has a soul and who doesn’t. It’s not. You think you’re the only one who’s ever killed? Think I’ve never killed?”

“’Course you have… demons, vamps, and whatall. Doesn’t count.”

“That’s exactly what I thought when I was doin’ it. I know better now.”

“Still,” Spike said doubtfully: “You didn’t have any qualms about it then.”

“Not many – no more than you did about killing regular humans – not till that day … just before they put the chip in. When I had to kill those vamps in the cells. That girl I told you about was just like Genevieve. She’d never fed …”

Spike’s face softened. “You did what you had to … did it for my sake.”

“That’s what I told myself. How I live with it.” He swept his fingers through his hair. “But I haven’t only killed demons.”

Spike tilted his head and frowned. “You mean ...?”

“What? You thought I went straight from basic training into demon-hunting? I was in the army five years before that.” Riley spoke softly. He hadn’t meant to dredge up this memory, but it looked as though it was unavoidable. “I’ve killed people … humans.”

Spike couldn’t seem to think of anything to say to that.

“Got medals for it,” Riley added bitterly.

“Yeah, but, they were the enemy, right?” Spike said, uncertain now. “Queen and country – well, flag or liberty or whatever it is you blokes think you’re fighting for. Kill or be killed, yeah?”

“Some of ’em, yeah, I was under fire,” Riley said. “On their territory, but yeah, they fired on me. But one time – the worst time – well, I’ll never know whether they’d have fired or not.”

“How so?” Spike said quietly.

“They didn’t see me coming – never stood a chance.” Riley struggled to keep his voice level, but it was hard. “Black ops – I never even knew for sure what country I was in, Central America somewhere. They were speaking Spanish. Up until …”

He swallowed around the lump in his throat, and Spike waited patiently for him to go on.

“I had to kill them without making a noise – two guys on lookout duty. Had to sneak up behind them, one after the other. Killed them both. With a wire … a garrotte.”

He couldn’t forget the sounds they’d made as they died.

“The second was worse. I knew by then that it wasn’t quick. How he’d struggle. And it was all just to make sure they didn’t raise the alarm when our guys went in on some guerrilla training camp.”

Spike put a hand on his arm. “You never said …”

“Don’t like thinkin’ about it. Don’t know – didn’t ask – whether they were really the enemy … And now –” He dragged his sleeve across his face. “Since I started really questioning stuff instead of just following orders? Sometimes, at night … I can’t stop thinking about it. Wondering if they had partners … kids … Poor bastards, probably living in tin shacks, on nothing but the hope of one day having even a tenth of what I have … or maybe even a vote … And you think _you’re_ not fit for human company?”

Spike took a step towards him, but Riley wasn’t ready to accept comfort; he turned away.

“Like you said,” Spike said wearily. “Everyone fails. No help for it. Just have to live with it. Try and … do better next time.” He heaved a sigh. “Sorry I made you –”

“No. It’s okay. I needed to … Never told anyone about it … how I felt. You couldn’t say these things … So I just joined the Initiative as soon as the chance came up. Thought it’d be simpler.”

Spike nodded. “Nothing’s as simple as it looks,” he said.

“I mean, ‘demons’, right?” Riley laughed bitterly. “Don’t they _have_ to be the bad guys?”

“You’d think.”

Then Spike just stood with him, as he struggled to compose himself. After a while, he felt Spike leaning into him a little, like his dog Jess did sometimes when he was feeling down, and Riley let his forehead rest on Spike’s shoulder; felt Spike’s hand on the back of his neck.

It gave him some measure of comfort.

At last, he squared his shoulders and took a deep breath.

Taking that as a sign, Spike said softly, “C’mon. My turn to face the music, yeah?”

Riley nodded assent.

When they reached the mouth of the alley, Spike came to a halt. “Angel?”

Angel gave up his attempt to hide in a doorway, and stepped forward. He nodded abruptly. “Spike.”

Spike just pushed past him, not meeting his eyes, but Riley’s anger – in no way mitigated by the fact that the conniving bastard had no doubt heard every word he’d said to Spike – came quickly to the boil.

“Go on ahead will you Spike, please?” he said tightly. “There’s something I have to say to Angel. I’ll meet you inside.”

Spike nodded. As he headed off, Riley called out, “Just don’t go up to your room, okay?”

Spike turned and – walking backwards – gave him a weary thumbs-up to show he understood, before disappearing round the corner.

Riley turned back to confront Angel.

“What the fuck are you playing at? The phoney death scene? Getting Drusilla to hand that girl to Spike on a plate, in case the first part didn’t work? Setting him up to prove to me he couldn’t be trusted? Why? I suppose you wanted me to try and kill him so you could sweep in and save him from me, is that it? Or was it just some sadistic test to see if you could drive him nuts?”

Angel raised both hands. “I had nothing to do with Drusilla, okay? I was as shocked as you were. She wasn’t part of the plan.”

“So what was this grand plan of yours? What exactly did you do Angel? You may as well tell me. I know you did something to Spike, I saw the injection site.”

Angel wiped a hand across his face. “I gave him an appetite enhancer – but it was only so that he’d go to the fridge for blood and be out of the way when you came in. I didn’t intend –”

“What else?”

Reluctantly Angel admitted, “There was something that compromises decision-making. That was so he’d co-operate with Harmony while she was distracting him.” Angel looked at the floor. “And he might still have been affected by the painkillers and sedatives he had earlier.”

“Are you crazy?” Riley almost went critical. “God! Why am I even asking that? You gave a _vampire_ a chemical cocktail to make him hungry and suggestible?”

“Well, now you put it like that –”

“Fucking hell, Angel, who’d you think you are? It’s like the Island of Doctor Moreau! Like the Initiative! If Spike had killed that woman, it would have been down to you – no one else. But he’d have blamed himself.”

“I know. I …” Angel shrugged. “If it makes any difference to you, I’ve met that girl before – take my word for it Riley, she’s gonna get herself vamped or die trying anyway.”

Riley felt his mouth drop open. “You’re the one with the soul?”

“I told you, I didn’t plan for her to be here. And you’re right –” Angel conceded: “– it was ill-advised. But I didn’t expect Spike to come into contact with anyone. And I just had to do something, after what you did to Spike the other night –”

Riley’s heart jumped into his throat. Spike must have betrayed him – his weakness. He couldn’t blame Spike. The fault had been his own – but it hurt like hell. He managed to steady his voice enough to demand, “What do you know about that?”

“Spike didn’t say anything,” Angel assured him. “He covered for you. But I could tell you’d … played rough –”

Riley felt the blood drain from his face. The floor seemed to have gone away, but Angel was still here – still talking – his voice lowered as he acknowledged the guilt they now shared.

“– maybe even forced yourself on him. Spike doesn’t need that. He’s had more than enough of it in his time, from me. And … I know it was a weird night – we all felt it. But I got to thinking, if you have that in you … what else might you be capable of? I had to be sure. He is my … well, I feel responsible. This _was_ a test.”

Riley saw Angel’s right hand extended towards him. “Congratulations,” Angel said. “You passed.”

Riley looked at the hand for a moment as this sunk in. He took in a deep breath, and as he let it out, he let it all go: the anger on Spike’s behalf; the moral outrage; the humiliation: all just so much hot air.

Because – when it came right down to it – no lives were lost.

He slapped the hand Angel was still holding out to him.

“You are one twisted son-of-a-bitch, you know that don’t you?”

“People keep telling me that.” Angel sounded genuinely concerned.

Riley just shook his head and followed after Spike.

When he got back to the hotel, the ambulance was just leaving, and Wesley was nowhere around, so presumably he’d gone with the girl to explain what had happened. Riley knew the drill. Some fictional wild animal would take the blame on the admission documentation.

He’d have to thank Wesley later.

Spike was waiting inside, sitting on one of the sofas, tapping his foot and smoking; looking drained and wired at the same time.

“So. What’s in my room that I’m not allowed to see?” He flicked ash on the floor. “I’m resigned to the fact that it’s not my Christmas present.”

Riley smiled weakly. “It’s Cordelia – made to look like she was dead, but it’s just one of Angel’s mind-games.”

“You figure out what the game was? ’Cos I’m buggered if I can work out the rules, whose team I’m on, who won, whether I got red-carded. Anythin’ really.”

He ground the cigarette out on the carpet.

“Well, believe it or not, I think Angel was checking me out. Trying to make sure I wouldn’t stake you if I thought you’d gone off the rails.”

Spike’s eyes widened. He puffed out a breath. “Guess we all know the answer to that now.” He frowned. “So the old man was tryin’ to protect me – at least in his own perverted imagination.”

“I guess …” Riley agreed reluctantly. “But I object to …”

Then Riley gave it up, because what he objected to was way too complicated to put into words right now. Angel was a prize asshole: that about summed it up; but that ground-breaking conclusion was no secret, and didn’t need airing again.

“You know what, Spike? Can we just get out of here? Go to a proper hotel, come back tomorrow for the post mortem if we have to?”

Spike’s face lit up, then fell a little. “What about the drugs – what if I –”

“I’ll make sure you’re safe. Angel told me what he gave you – appetite enhancers, and some kind of mood-altering chemicals to make you suggestible – but you look like you’re about to crash. I’ll make sure nothing else goes wrong.”

Spike nodded. “Okay, thanks. But I’m still a bit peckish,” he said, somewhat tentatively.

“Where’s the supply?”

“Through there,” Spike said indicating the direction of the kitchen.

Riley quickly found what he was looking for. Thinking the frozen packs less likely to have been tampered with than the fresh ones, he took five packs of blood from the freezer drawer, and threw them into a carrier bag. Then he took Spike by the hand, hauled him to his feet and propelled him towards the door: just as Angel was coming in.

Angel seemed somewhat apprehensive when he saw them forming a roadblock in the doorway, but Spike stepped aside to let him pass, and flashed his sire a sardonic glance.

“I appreciate the thought Angel – really I do – but I think it’s a few decades too late to start playing over-protective dad, don’t you?”

“It is?” Angel said uneasily.

Spike looked pityingly at him. “Cat jumped out of that cradle round about the time you decided that chucking me out of a submarine twenty miles from land was the best way to teach me to swim.”

It was then that Cordelia appeared at the top of the stairs, decidedly the worse for wear.

“Cordelia!” Spike raised his eyebrows, then added with a mischievous glint in his eyes, “You look smashing!”

“Watch it, Mister!” she said, pulling a fake wound from her neck. “All this is _your_ fault!” She rolled the silicon novelty between her hands and threw it at Spike, who dodged it, grinning.

“And as for you, Mr Employer of the Month!” she said, turning her wrath on Angel. “I just threw up. It was green.”

She closed her eyes and swallowed – evidently trying not to repeat the performance – then peeled the other fang-mark from her skin and rolled it.

“Next time you want an actress for a cheesy horror flick? Go to an agency.” She launched her second silicon projectile at Angel, hitting him square between the eyes.

“Ow!”

Angel was looking so brow-beaten that Riley almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

“I’d just better not be pregnant again!” Cordelia added, regarding them all balefully.

Riley and Spike turned in unison and looked askance at Angel.

He just shook his head. “Long story.”

Cordelia, meanwhile, was tottering back towards Spike’s room, looking as though she might not make it to the bathroom in time.

Ever hopeful, Spike said, “Be a love and try not to puke on my coat would you?”

Cordelia waved a dismissive hand as she disappeared through the doorway.

“Looks like you have your hands full for tonight,” Riley said, with something approaching sympathy. “We’ll come round tomorrow and collect your ashes. Where would you like them scattered?”

Angel scratched the back of his head and said, “I think I’d like to be buried at sea.”

~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quotation credits:
> 
> The song Drusilla hears playing is Rasputina’s “Transylvanian Concubine”.
> 
> The lines Angel sang are from “Liverpool Lullaby (or, The Mucky Kid)”  
> Words: Stan Kelly  
> Tune: Traditional ("Dollia," Tyneside); arr. Stan Kelly


	11. Promises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things look more promising.

**Friday 2nd February: night.**

 

“Well, at least we got here without incident,” Spike said, as they got settled into their hotel room. “Managed not to growl at the taxi driver, or take a bite out of the receptionist.”

“I never doubted you would,” Riley said. It came out a lot louder, and more vehement, than he’d intended.

With a concentration the task barely warranted, Riley set about de-frosting one of the packs of frozen blood, using hot water from the tap. For a few seconds, the four-star silence was broken only by the rush of water into the sink, and the crunching sound as Riley crushed a recalcitrant block of blood-ice into crystals.

With his heart in his mouth, Riley said, “You know, if you want your freedom, Spike, you got it.”

A deathly quiet greeted this statement. Riley didn’t know what that meant. He sensed only confusion from Spike, but he couldn’t get up the nerve to turn and look at him. Instead, he just kept watching the red glaciers, trapped within their transparent plastic prison, splitting off and melting in a sea of red.

Damn Angel for putting this brain-worm into his head.

Finally unable to bear the suspense, Riley went on, “What I mean is, if you wanna take off, I won’t stand in your way. Now you don’t really need me any more.”

“_Need_ you?” Spike said sharply. “What? Because I can catch my own supper, I don’t need you? That what you think?”

“No –”

“Never _needed_ you –”

Riley would have gone into a flat spin, if Spike hadn’t swiftly qualified his declaration of independence: “Not for that. Material things. I’d have got by alright. Kept my head down. Got blood at the butcher’s, same as the next vamp as wants to keep a low profile. Stayed with you because I wanted to …”

After a thoughtful pause, Spike added, “But you knew that.”

Riley felt a tentative hand on his arm. He turned to face Spike.

“You changed _your_ mind?” Spike said, looking searchingly into his face. “That what this is about?”

“No!”

“Couldn’t blame you. Not after tonight’s poor show.”

Spike was ready to crack like an eggshell beneath his foot. Sometimes Riley felt like a buffalo, charging around in Spike’s heart; sometimes he almost wished he didn’t have the ring.

Quiet and serious, Spike went on, “’Cos, you can tell me … if it was too much for you.” He frowned. “Won’t happen again, not to innocent parties. I’ll starve before I let you down like that again.”

And Riley had known – of course he’d known – that whatever Spike might have claimed, it had never been his intention to go back to picking off anyone he chose, just to keep himself fed. But to have him say it out loud – give safe passage to anyone outside their immediate circle – that was a big deal for Spike, and Riley knew it.

Spike looked uneasily at the floor. “There. I’ve said it. You have my word, if you’ll accept it. But if you want me to go, you just have to say …”

“Please stay,” Riley said. And though he was painfully aware that what he was about to say sounded lame, there was no way out, now he’d brought it up. “I just thought you might … I dunno. Want to be with your own kind.”

Spike raised an eyebrow. “Hear the ‘call of the wild’ you mean?” His tone was light and ironic, but underneath it, Riley could tell he was mightily relieved.

“Somethin’ like that,” Riley admitted.

“I know I let the side down tonight, but I was kidding about eating the service classes,” Spike said. “I _can_ function in civilised company. I’m a vampire, not a bloody wild dog.”

“I know. Sorry. I just wanted …” Riley gestured helplessly, trying to grab the right words from the air: “I mean, it’s almost like you’ve been in prison the whole time since we met. First the Initiative, then the chip. I just hope we can put the past behind us.”

“What’s wrong with the past?” Spike demanded. “Don’t wanna forget a moment of what I’ve spent with you. Why would I?”

“I don’t know.” Riley wasn’t sure where he was going with this, but he’d get there eventually. “I just think things might be different now. Between us, I mean. I hope they’ll be better.” He looked away. “Hope I’ll be enough for you, now you have your teeth back. I’ll try to be. But I just wanted you to know, I won’t ever try to be your keeper, just because you don’t have that thing in your head any more.”

Spike shook his head. “You think too much,” he said, with a wry smile. “Thanks anyway …” He perused the plush surroundings and added: “But I’m good here.”

Then he wandered around the room, idly flicking the light switches, apparently just to see what would happen. “What is it with you and posh hotels anyway?” Spike said. “Got ideas above your station?”

Riley grinned sheepishly. He liked it when one of his ‘things’ seemed to amuse Spike, even if – as so often – he wasn’t in on the joke.

“I dunno,” he said, his mind flashing back to the miserable accommodation Spike had assigned himself, while working in Cleveland. “I figure if you’re gonna pay for somewhere to sleep, it better be an improvement on what you get at home, for free.”

“Huh. Makes a warped kind of sense I suppose.”

“Yeah. Warped – that’s me,” Riley said, with a little shake of his head.

Judging that the blood was warm enough, he rooted around in his pocket for his knife and carefully cut the corner off the pack. He poured some into a coffee cup and handed it to Spike.

Spike drank it down, with calculated slowness.

It was strangely awkward, being together again; they both felt it, but Spike seemed especially ill-at-ease. He’d adamantly refused Riley’s offer to stop somewhere for cigarettes on the way here, and Riley was beginning to wish he’d bought some anyway.

When Spike had finished the blood, he set the cup down, and took to wandering round the room again, looking at the free stuff. He picked up a pen from the hotel’s stationery folder and stuck it in his jeans pocket, but then he noticed Riley laughing and shaking his head, and quickly put it back where it came from.

“Now I know what happens to all the lost ballpoints,” Riley said with a triumphant grin. “Stolen by vampires!”

“Old habits,” Spike said ruefully. “Hard to break ’em.”

Riley instantly regretted having thrown Spike back on the defensive.

“Take the pen, Spike. Hell, the room cost enough,” he told him. “It just tickled me. If you want a pen, we can buy a better one than that.” As an afterthought he added confidingly: “Maybe even two or three!”

Spike shrugged and took it back. “Wanna give Wes a call?” he said. “See how that girl’s doin’?”

Maybe that explained why Spike was so jittery. “I would, but he’ll still be at the hospital. He’ll have his phone switched off.”

Spike sighed.

“I’m pretty sure she’ll be alright,” Riley said. “But it’s getting late. Wesley will need to get some sleep after he finishes at the ER. Can we leave it till tomorrow?”

Spike gave a reluctant nod, and continued his desultory search for something to do with his hands.

“Want a drink from the mini-bar?” Riley said. “Or … maybe you shouldn’t …”

“Think you’re right. Been messed about with enough for one day.” Spike’s gaze lit on the tea-tray. “Wouldn’t mind one of these hot chocolate-y things,” he said, picking a purple and brown sachet out of the selection, and giving it a shake. “Maybe later.”

Apparently coming to a decision, he turned an intense gaze on Riley, and looked him up and down, as though he were the Ferrari Testarossa of boyfriends. “There’s something I’d like more though, and right now.”

Riley appraised himself in the dressing table mirror. His nose was red, his hair unkempt and his eyes were puffy, with deep shadows under them. He looked like shit. “Well, now I _know_ it’s love,” he said with a slight shake of his head.

Spike sauntered towards him and pressed him up against the wall. “Damn straight.”

Then Spike dropped his head to Riley’s shoulder, and stayed like that, holding himself utterly still. Riley could feel the vampire’s mercurial energy thrumming in his veins, as Spike pinned him with the effortless strength and balance of a puma.

It was true, what he’d said earlier: he’d never really seen Spike, undiminished by bars, or injuries, or the chip. Up to now – unlike Spike – he could have resisted. Now _he_ was the one without a safety net.

He’d been so sure he was prepared; it was time to test that out.

Tipping Spike’s head back, he kissed him softly, like it was the first time, and Spike’s response melted on his tongue, cool and sweet as vanilla ice-cream. Riley was glad of the wall at his back, because his knees were suddenly weak, and Spike’s kisses soon gained heat and urgency: his mouth demanding, as he nipped at Riley’s tongue and jerked his hips against Riley’s, coarse and insistent.

That was okay.

It was good.

He’d expected Spike to take control, this first night together, with nothing to hold him back. And if Spike wanted to play a bit rough with him – even get a little payback – that was okay too. A part of him wanted it; felt he had it coming.

But something about this felt … off. Spike’s actions were out of key with what he was feeling.

Riley’s dick didn’t have a problem with this, and the selfish part of him could easily have been led by it. Spike wasn’t lying about wanting him, as the press of Spike’s erection against his own readily testified. But this wasn’t the real Spike, trying to start a fire with the friction as he ground against Riley’s thigh; it was the persona he wore like his well-loved coat. Most times that coat fit like a second skin, but right this moment it was more like the emperor’s new clothes: made of air and wishful thinking, and just a little too large for its owner.

Spike needed time to grow into it again.

It’s hard to think straight when you’re rigid and dizzy with lust, and there’s a hundred and eighty pounds of sexy vampire welded to you, clawing at you; urging you on with dirty words and dirty little touches; but Riley knew in his heart that this was all wrong and very poor timing, especially when he remembered the chemicals – designed to ‘make Spike suggestible’ – that might be adding their own confusing influence to the mix.

So Riley tried to put the brakes on; pushed against Spike a little. “Last time we did this –”

“We nearly got stuck in a hell dimension, I know,” Spike replied, pushing back, and attacking Riley’s clothing like a frantic teenager whose parents are due back in fifteen minutes. “We’ll be okay. That’s all sorted out now.”

Holding Spike away from him and looking into his eyes, Riley pleaded, “I can’t – I _mustn’t_ – do it like this. The drugs Angel gave you, they might make you –”

“Don’t care what they do to me,” Spike said: his voice husky with need. “Trust you. You said you’d keep me safe, and you will.”

Spike kept his gaze fixed on Riley’s face, and dropped to his knees, the action sublimating Riley’s resolve as it always did; as Spike must have known it would: turning his legs to jello and his stomach to water; making his heart expand in his chest until it almost took his breath away.

Spike’s game-face emerged. He tried to shake it off, but Riley touched it reverently. “Don’t hide it –” he begged Spike breathlessly: “Not from me. It’s beautiful.”

Spike’s eyes opened wide, incredulous. He shivered as Riley touched the swellings on his forehead and said, “Don’t want you to be afraid of me.”

“I’ve never been afraid of you.”

“No. You never have, have you?” Spike said wonderingly, his head on one side. “Thank you.”

Riley felt the frozen core of Spike’s mistrust – disbelief in Riley and in himself – begin to melt. He offered his hand for Spike to feed from him, but Spike just pushed into it, mouthing his thumb; grazing the palm with his fangs, and if Riley had got hard just from seeing Spike on his knees before him – and he had – the scrape across his scar made him instantly harder.

Knowing it, Spike rubbed his brow against Riley’s erection where it was pressing against his pants.

Riley fought to suppress the sound that rose in his throat; to still the reflexive jerk of his hips, and keep his mind on what was best for Spike. His own satisfaction was the least of his concerns. _That_ could stay untended all night if Spike didn’t care to do anything about it.

But it was too hard, and Spike was too sexy.

He sank to the floor with a moan, and kissed Spike’s face, slow and gentle, and Spike closed his eyes, turning his head this way; that way; making sure not an inch was neglected. He placed open-mouthed kisses on Spike’s ridged forehead, his temples, and on his eyes; he was rewarded with a soft whine. The side of Spike’s nose, the flat planes of his cheeks and the line of his jaw got the same attention.

When Riley moved on to the hollows of Spike’s neck and throat, Spike started taking short, excited breaths, and pressing his palms to Riley’s chest – almost as if to keep them both from sin – but he willingly let Riley raise him from the floor and lead him to the bed, and when Riley started to undress him, he raised his arms, and then his feet, to allow it.

But Riley was brought up short – angry with Angel all over again – when he saw the patchwork of bruises still patterning Spike’s skin. He didn’t say anything; just blew out an acerbic puff of air.

The mood – the rhythm – was broken.

“I asked for this, remember?” Spike said. He pressed experimentally on a particularly colourful contusion, and winced. “Well – kind-of.”

He sat down on the edge of the bed, and then stretched out full length, cracking his joints. “Anyway, you should see the other guy.”

“I don’t wanna see this much of him, thanks!” Riley said, grimacing. He grinned suddenly. “But he did look roughed up. Serve him right. Bastard!”

“Don’t be too hard on him,” Spike said. “He was only doin’ what he thought was best. Had more than a year’s-worth of aggression to get out of me. Not sayin’ it didn’t hurt, it did – more ways than one. But he did a bloody good job of it. No one can piss me off like Angel. Really made me see how tight I was wound.”

He bit his lip anxiously.

“Come to think of it – might be an idea if we get a punch-bag. Hang it in one of the barns for me to take it out on, if I get in a strop. Don’t suppose Angel’s gonna be volunteering to fill that role again, any time soon.”

Spike turned away, and Riley couldn’t quite see his face as he went on: “Makes me wonder what it’s like for him. His demon’s been caged up a hundred years, give or take. No wonder he’s such a moody git.”

“Don’t worry about him,” Riley said abruptly. “Not tonight.”

Riley didn’t know what Angel could have said or done to piss Spike off so much, but knowing wasn’t going to make him think more kindly of Spike’s sire and mentor, so he didn’t ask. His rankling animosity against Angel had done enough damage; wasted enough energy that could be put to better use. Spike had clearly been put through the wringer, and it was up to him to make sure there was no serious damage needing attention.

“Let me get a look at that,” Riley said, taking Spike’s left hand in his. The knuckles were covered in scar-tissue from recently-healed wounds. He pressed tentatively on the joints and Spike flinched slightly.

“A few breaks?” Riley suggested.

“Most likely. Angel’s skull’s pretty thick.”

Riley snorted.

Spike’s skin was opalescent with bruises, but Riley was relieved to find that his injuries weren’t especially severe, and no large bones needed re-setting. Even so, he made sure to be more tender than usual, as Spike submitted to the examination.

They’d been here and done this before, but Spike was still a little skittish. There was a slight frown on his forehead that even the game-face didn’t mask: as though he wasn’t sure what should come next.

At first, Riley found himself mildly perplexed – even disappointed – that Spike’s earlier enthusiasm seemed to have petered out. It usually took a lot less than a little game of ‘paramedics’ to keep the motor revving.

Then he mentally gave himself a shake. What was he thinking? What had happened to his earlier determination, to slow things down?

In the last couple of weeks, Spike had been captured, electrocuted, drugged, beaten, sold, and violated and terrorised by strangers in various unspeakable ways; he’d narrowly escaped slipping into an unpleasant alternate reality; he’d had brain surgery; and tonight, he’d been framed for murder. It had all been a bit extreme, even by Spike’s robust standards.

Worst of all had been Riley’s own shameful contribution to the litany.

As the memory forced him to look upon it once again, Riley was transfixed, with the horrible fascination of someone examining a wound in his own heart. He felt once more the dark intent of that other Riley Finn – jealous and vengeful – as he’d plunged the plastic stake into the other Spike’s chest. It was disturbing how easily that darkness had seeped through to contaminate his interactions with his own Spike: establishing a beach-head in his insecurity over the challenge from Drusilla; finding a willing collaborator in his resentment of Angel; and because of his lack of vigilance, Spike had been all but r-

Riley shook his head in disbelief at his own chicanery. Even now, he was trying to take a coward’s way out; to blame it on some outside force, or some ‘other’ version of himself. Not acceptable. He wasn’t getting off the hook like that. He, Riley Finn – the one person Spike should have been able to trust – had given in to his own darkness – his worst impulses – and had raped him.

A sick feeling came over him.

Spike hadn’t resisted, but that was a technicality, and they’d both known it. Even if Spike _had_ tried to fight him, it wouldn’t have made one damn iota of difference, except perhaps to make it worse. He’d been in the grip of a jealous, all-consuming rage; he’d wanted to force himself into Spike’s every pore, all the interstices of his being, every hole in his body, until there was no room for anyone or anything else in his mind, or in his heart.

Too much in his head that needed saying to even begin, Riley looked pensively at Spike, and – seeing Riley so troubled – Spike reached a hand up to palm his cheek.

The simple, wordless gesture of kindness nearly broke Riley in pieces.

And it was oh-so twisted to feel this way, but Spike’s readiness to forgive – intended as a comfort – hurt more than anger or accusations would have. It fed his jealousy rather than assuaging it; made him wonder how far he would have to go, to make Spike tell him, ‘No one’s ever hurt me like that before.’

And that was clearly an insane way of thinking.

Well, he was naming it now; calling it out. He could have – should have – tried harder; done better. He wouldn’t give in to those feelings again, however hard it might be. Spike was on his knees to him; not to Drusilla; not to Angel, but to him – brought down by love – and had been for a long time.

It was more, much more than he deserved.

He badly wanted to offer another apology for that hideous night; but to do so would just be selfish. Spike didn’t need to be reminded about it, and have to brush it off, again. Even before that … that thing … the past few weeks hadn’t exactly been hearts and flowers. It was hardly surprising if Spike was a little less enthusiastic than usual. Maybe they should just …

“Wanna watch some TV?” Riley suggested.

“Yeah,” Spike replied, looking puzzled. “Alright. Why not?”

They switched it on.

~~

His attention distracted as he flicked channels, Spike’s game-face subsided, and when a futuristic cityscape appeared briefly on the screen, he flicked back to it, and almost bounced as he sat up. “Bloody brilliant!”

“What is it?” Riley asked.

“Don’t _tell_ me you’ve never seen ‘Blade Runner’?”

“Don’t think so,” Riley admitted, somewhat abashed at what was obviously a severe cultural deficiency.

“C’mere!” Spike plumped the pillows and gestured for Riley to join him on the bed, but while Spike casually slid under the covers, he left Riley to sit on top of them.

That was okay.

Riley sat where Spike wanted him.

Spike groaned. “Bloody ‘Director’s Cut.’ Theatre version’s better. Still worth watching, though.”

So Riley watched the screen, and did his damnedest to read the introduction, but Spike was making it difficult; pressing as close to him as the thickness of the covers and his clothing would allow. Riley felt Spike’s fingertips on his stomach, casually tracing zigzag patterns under his tee-shirt and along the outlines of his ribs, then lightly flicking and pinching his nipples, teasing them to hardness. As he twitched and jerked under Spike’s hands, Spike made approving noises in his throat.

Riley bent to kiss the top of Spike’s head.

“Big sap,” Spike murmured.

“Guilty as charged,” Riley said fondly.

On the screen, a bureaucrat of some kind was questioning a detainee. ‘Describe in single words,’ the interrogator said, ‘– only the good things that come into your mind about your mother.’

Spike’s fingers briefly halted their wanton meanderings, and Riley glanced quizzically at him. Spike’s human family was something Spike had never talked about, and Riley had never dared to ask, in case there was some tragic circumstance; maybe Angel or Drusilla had killed them. But now seemed like a good time to satisfy his smouldering curiosity.

“You never told me –”

“Sshh!” Spike put a finger to Riley’s lips. “You’ll miss something.”

The film wasn’t the fastest-paced ever made, but Riley didn’t push. Maybe one day, Spike would feel like telling him.

Anyway, there were other things to think about. Without him even noticing, Spike had already managed to strip him of his tee shirt, but was now perversely ignoring every part of his body except his fingertips, which he was kissing and biting by turns; sometimes letting his teeth sharpen, and lapping the small jewels of blood that were drawn to the surface.

Riley shivered.

A lovely dark-haired woman click-clacked robotically across the screen, and Spike ceased his attentions for a moment to say, “That android bint’s foolin’ nobody!”

“Pretty though, don’t you think?” Riley said, daring a sly tease.

“Bloody gorgeous,” Spike said candidly. After a while he added, with a questioning note in his voice, “But she’s not real.”

Riley was quiet for a moment, considering. “She thinks she is,” he said. “Maybe, in the end, that’s all that matters.”

Spike grunted, and went back to work, mouthing Riley’s palm and wrist, nipping with blunted teeth at the sensitive skin on the inside of his forearm then kissing it better, or soothing it with strokes of his tongue, and then biting it again.

Riley bore this with stoicism, only shifting slightly to see over Spike’s head.

“Hey! That guy has hair like yours!” he said with faux innocence.

“Does _not_,” Spike retorted without even glancing at the screen, but punishing a nipple with a reproachful bite.

“Ow!”

Soft kisses were pressed on the injured flesh and Riley stroked the nape of Spike’s neck, and tried to string a sentence together. “Is he … mmm … that’s … oh! … Is he a vampire?”

“Who? Rutger Hauer?” Spike looked up from his labours and scratched his nose thoughtfully. “Not a bad call. I did wonder about him. He’s cheesy enough to be one of Vlad’s brood, but I’ve seen film of him in daylight.”

“Could have been blue-screened …” Riley speculated.

“Hollywood’s best-kept secret …” Spike murmured, and went back to tormenting him.

It seemed to put Spike at his ease that he had to compete with the TV for attention, and Riley tried to watch the film – he really did – but when Spike competed, he played to win: interfering with Riley’s concentration by nudging into his ribs; capriciously meting out small cruelties and caresses; messing with him until he almost came in his pants – again.

Getting wise to Spike’s tricks – took him long enough – Riley managed to avoid a repeat of that particular humiliation. He slapped Spike’s hands playfully and enlisted a pillow in self-defence; then he pointedly turned up the volume on the TV.

Narrowing his eyes, Spike got out from under the covers, into Riley’s line of sight, annexed the pillow, and began stripping him of his jeans. Defences breached, Riley’s cock sprang free, and he was about to raise the white flag, but Spike chose that precise moment to turn back to the screen.

“Oh! You have to watch this bit!” Spike said, without apparent guile.

Obediently, Riley looked back at the TV, trying to get a grip on the plot once more, but – with his jeans around his knees – it wasn’t long before he was squirming with embarrassment.

“A snake-dancer?” he said. “Oh!” As she came out of the shower, her breasts exposed, Riley glanced nervously down at himself, then back at Spike. Was this some kind of test?

But Spike didn’t seem to mind him looking, because he nodded urgently. “Watch this!”

The woman – another of the replicants – tried to strangle Harrison Ford’s character, and then made off. During the chase that followed, Riley – deciding that enough was enough – shucked out of his jeans and under the covers. He pushed himself higher on the pillows, chewing anxiously on his thumb, as though his participation might help the replicant to escape.

“You _want_ her to get away?” Spike said, bemused.

“Sure. She didn’t do anything.”

“She tried to kill him – our hero-bloke, Deckard.”

“Well, she knew he was hunting her down – trying to kill her. Since when did erotic dancing carry a mandatory death sentence in LA?”

As the scene drew to its climax, Riley’s heart sank. “Oh no.” He slumped a little.

“’S just a film,” Spike said, glancing at him.

“He shot her in the back. He shot a woman in the back,” Riley said, sickened. “She was running away and he shot her in the back. I don’t like to see that.”

“But doesn’t it look fantastic the way she crashes through those plate glass windows?” Spike squeezed Riley’s forearm. “At least he’s sorry for it. Look, he’s nearly puking. And he’ll make up for it. You’ll see.”

“Can he bring her back?”

“No, he can’t,” Spike said softly. “But he can save one.”

Looking steadily at him, Spike pressed a kiss on Riley’s left palm, and for a few naked seconds, they left the drama on the screen to move on without them.

Then the words: ‘Painful to live in fear, isn’t it?’ – broke their silent communion.

Riley bit his lip.

Spike took the remote and hit the mute button. “Seen it loads of times,” he said abruptly.

“No, it’s okay, if you want to –”

“What I _want_ …” Spike ground himself against Riley, using blatant product placement to show what he wanted, and how much he wanted it.

But now Spike was really ready to go, it was Riley who’d lost the mood: distracted by guilty thoughts.

It was ridiculous.

Spike had killed too: he’d killed many thousands. But still, Riley hardly felt fit to touch him; and he wanted to. He wanted to touch him, and he wanted so much to make this good for him, the fear that – yet again – it wouldn’t go right, was paralysing.

Spike blew out his cheeks. “Thinking again,” he said. “Warned you about that.” He swung himself off the bed, chose a bottle from the mini-bar, poured it into a glass and handed it to Riley. “Here.”

Riley looked at it doubtfully. He took a large mouthful, then wished he hadn’t wasted good-quality Scotch by taking so much at once. He swallowed, feeling the burn in his throat, and looked at Spike.

“Show me ...” he pleaded. “Tell me what you want me to do …”

Cocking his head like a bird, Spike knelt on the bed beside him and took his hands; turned them over and massaged them with his own, murmuring, almost to himself, “I love your hands … loved them since that first time ... on your ground-sheet, in that crypt ...”

“I remember …”

“Wanna feel them everywhere – like I did that night. Making me yours.”

Riley huffed out a breath. This shouldn’t be too hard. But his own hands – hands that had treated Spike with such disrespect; left scratches and bruises the last time they’d been laid on him – seemed like new and complex gadgets, with instructions in Mandarin.

Shaking his head, Spike coaxed him, “C’mon mate, ‘Birds do it, bees do it.’ Doesn’t take genius.”

Spike took Riley’s hands – ghosted his lips across the knuckles – then placed them where he wanted them, giving Riley permission to touch him: to roam the flat plains of his stomach; to explore the firm swellings of his pectoral muscles; to caress the subtle curves around his neck and clavicles. And by the catch in his breath, the flick of an eyelash, the tilt of his jaw, and the little needy sounds he made, Spike showed him what was good and what was better; by the way he moulded himself and pressed into Riley’s hand just so …

“That’s it love … Now you’re gettin’ it.”

Gaining courage, Riley ran his palms up the insides of Spike’s thighs, and Spike moaned and spread his knees wider, encouraging Riley to greater liberties.

“See what you do to me?” Spike said, his voice charged with longing.

Riley glanced down and licked his lips. Spike’s cock stood begging for attention, and he wanted to touch it; wanted to take Spike into his mouth where the alcohol had made his nerve endings tingle in readiness.

Spike saw him looking and flexed his hips – inviting – but still Riley felt something holding him back; needed Spike to lead him.

Spike touched his fingers to Riley’s lips; he parted them, taking Spike’s fingertips in his mouth, allowing them to make gentle investigations where they would: under his tongue, around the inside of his lips; he whimpered when Spike took them away.

Had he done something wrong?

Oh! No, he hadn’t.

Spike closed his eyes to let Riley watch unobserved, as he touched slick fingertips to his cock; drew back the foreskin and teased around the glistening head, then pumped himself once, with a soft moan of frustration.

Riley made a small sound in his throat.

Spike opened shining eyes and looked longingly at him from under his lashes, and Riley’s stomach did a flip.

He swallowed nervously as Spike guided his hands.

Spike’s ass: he had his hands on Spike’s ass. It was firm and lean, the muscles clenched, thrusting forward as he offered himself, and Riley drew Spike towards him: close enough that Spike’s cock brushed his cheek.

With a sharp anticipatory breath, he offered Spike his mouth.

But it was Spike’s turn to play hard-to-get. He thumbed the head of his cock, then smudged his thumb along Riley’s lower lip, giving him a taste; then he took himself in hand, and treated himself to a few languorous pulls, while Riley could only watch: his throat tight, his eyes wide and prickling, his mouth dry, and so empty.

But Spike had said ‘hands.’

He ran them up to the curve of Spike’s lower back, kissing the smooth whiteness of his stomach; shivering at the feel of Spike’s cock painting his chest, as Spike rudely thrust and sawed it against him.

God, how he wanted to touch it, worship it, with his hands and – yes – with his mouth, but still he didn’t dare.

Spike pulled away, and placed Riley’s hands on his chest, and Riley rubbed his thumbs over Spike’s nipples.

Biting his lip, Spike closed his eyes. He threw his head back and clasped his hands behind it, making the muscles in his arms and chest stand out, starkly defined in the dim flickering light of the TV.

Riley ran his fingertips a hair’s breadth from the sensitive skin of Spike’s exposed armpits, then caressed them softly. He was rewarded with a hiss of approval, so he raked his fingers through the dark hairs, and Spike squirmed, snorting; his back arching; his cock standing straight out from his body, and if Riley hadn’t closed his eyes, he’d have shot his load right then.

His heart was racing. He breathed deeply for a moment, resting his hands on Spike’s ribs, and felt them expand and contract in time with his own.

Spike was right there with him.

Riley felt something inside him release – let passion lead him – and the universe contracted. Those few privileged molecules: the tips of his fingers, the palms of his hands, where flesh met flesh, and skin met skin: they were alpha and omega, and who could say who felt what, or where one ended and the other began; and now he felt the reassuring weight of Spike’s balls in his palm, and the smooth insistence of Spike’s hips, thrusting eagerly forward under his hand, and nothing else existed: nothing mattered, but that blessed intersection where he and Spike were one.

He bowed his head in intense concentration as he stroked the silken furrow between Spike’s thighs, then – holding his breath – let the pad of his middle finger brush against Spike’s entrance.

He felt Spike tensing, just a little.

That was okay. There would be time for that: but not tonight.

He withdrew slowly; went back to fondling Spike’s sac. “S’okay,” he said softly. “We won’t –”

“Please …” Spike begged him, gripping his wrist.

“You’re not ready …”

“Am too …” Spike protested, unconvincingly.

“Well, maybe it’s me,” Riley said, and it wasn’t so far from the truth. “I’m not ready.”

“Tomorrow?” Spike said, his voice tentative.

“Sure,” Riley said. “You got a date.”

“No one could say you were easy,” Spike groused. “Not ready? I’ll show you who’s not ready …”

In a heartbeat, Spike was sitting astride Riley’s hips, eyes gold, everything pumped rigid as he spread himself wide, jerking lewd hips, making his cock slap against his stomach, and stroking himself from behind. He moaned and clenched his teeth as he touched himself over and again where Riley had baulked.

For a moment, Riley almost had second thoughts; but like before, this was all just a brave show. The desperation in Spike’s eyes, as he tried to prove his willingness to give it up for him, only convinced Riley that tonight wasn’t a good time.

He made soothing sounds, trying to bring Spike back down, stroking Spike’s flank; rubbing his thumb along the scar through Spike’s left eyebrow.

Spike whimpered, resisting, but what Riley felt mingled with Spike’s arousal wasn’t frustration at his refusal; it was relief

“Hey. Take it easy,” Riley said. “You don’t have anything to prove to me.”

Spike blinked. “Sorry,” he murmured, embarrassed. “Such a slut.”

“No … you’re not,” Riley said softly. “Please don’t insult the man I love.”

Spike’s pupils flashed wide. He held Riley’s face, bent his head and kissed him warmly. Their cocks were bumping against each other; Spike took Riley’s hand from his side and wrapped it round both of them. Looking down, Riley caught his breath at the sight; he felt a flush of heat from his toes to the roots of his hair.

Then he began jacking them, slowly and deliberately.

“Spike …” he murmured, thrusting upward with his hips, cupping Spike’s balls, letting them rise and fall back, rise and fall back into the palm of his hand.

Spike gazed at him, his lips slightly parted, his eyes wide: the pupils large and black against the gold.

“I got you,” Riley said simply.

“Yes …” Spike breathed.

Spike pressed his brow against Riley’s, puffing out small breaths, watching covertly under his lashes as Riley worked them, bearing Spike’s weight on his thighs, sometimes exerting gentle pressure on his balls, sometimes letting them slap down onto his palm, sometimes taking the hand away, drawing a moan of disappointment from Spike, but always the gentle rise and fall, rise and fall like the moon and tides, like the pumping of blood around the veins.

Riley tilted his head, offering his neck and this time – for the first time – Spike didn’t hesitate. There was gentle pressure and the slide of fangs and Riley gave it up with a sigh of sweet submission, letting Spike drink from him for a few precious seconds.

The act was so sublime – so elemental: to be truly sharing your life with the one you loved – that he could have stood to let Spike take every drop and still wanted to give more; but that was something else that neither of them was ready for. A slight feeling of dizziness was all the prompting Riley needed. He released their cocks and tapped Spike on the side: a gentle warning.

Spike withdrew his fangs and turned a shocked gaze upon him. “I –”

“It’s okay Spike,” Riley said, slightly hypnotised. “See? I trust you. And you can trust me. I got your back, I won’t let anything go wrong.”

Spike snorted, half-afraid of himself; but Riley didn’t want him to be afraid. “It’s okay, honey I got you – let it go.”

And Spike finally got it: what Riley had been trying – without much success – to put into words when they first arrived; there was nothing standing between them now, and meeting Riley’s eyes, Spike saw the truth of it. The chip that had constrained him – punished him for who he was – was gone. He was whole again, and everything he had, was his to give.

Riley felt Spike’s cock nudge him, reminding him of his task, and when he took Spike in hand again, it was an intoxication of the best kind. Spike let his eyes fall closed –left everything exposed to Riley’s gaze – uttering small guttural cries of naked want as Riley took him slowly and remorselessly towards the edge, one hand driving while his open palm rewarded every fall with a caress.

And Riley didn’t know where it all came from, but he heard himself coaxing Spike, goading him – “Come on! Come on! Come here … Is that it? Is that all?” – as Spike hung onto this moment, where he had nothing to hide, and nothing to fear, and Riley’s blood singing in his veins, and Riley’s voice urging him, “Come on, lover, I got you, give it …”

Spike stilled suddenly.

Riley smoothed his thumb over the head of Spike’s cock, once, twice as he rubbed a knuckle behind his balls, and then just barely pressed against Spike’s hole.

A shiver of nervous anticipation, and Spike came, pumping over Riley’s fist with soft aching cries of surrender. As he finished, he took Riley’s face between weakened fingers, and kissed his mouth with great care.

Riley lay back, flushed and sweating and striped with Spike’s issue, his own cock neglected and painfully hard, and Spike stared at him, blinked his game-face away and panted, “Fuck, you’re beautiful!”

“Thanks,” Riley said – wide-eyed and lust-dazed: “You too.”

He lay there for a few seconds, trying to get his breath back – get a grip – until Spike’s rapt attention made him too self-conscious; then he covered himself and pushed up on his elbows, ready to dislodge Spike, and get off the bed.

“Where’d you think you’re going?” Spike demanded with a lazy, blissed-out expression on his face.

“Bathroom?” Riley said apologetically.

With an expression of languid severity, Spike shook his head, pushed Riley down onto his back, and began to lick him clean. Riley moaned softly as Spike’s tongue rasped across his sensitised skin, Spike’s chest and stomach, rubbing teasingly against his swollen dick, until he was sure he was going to come in Spike’s face, and there wasn’t a word for how bad that would be, but …

“Oh!”

… A firm hand gripped him: saved him from that mortification.

Spike shuffled down between his legs, nudged his trapped and swollen cock dismissively, and began kissing around and beneath it, gently mauling his balls with lips and teeth and tongue. It was too much. Riley jerked and rocked, bunching the sheets in his fists.

Despite his need, he protested – “Oh, God, I don’t deserve …”

Between licks and kisses, Spike murmured, “‘Use every man after his deserts and who shall ’scape whipping?’”

Riley caught his breath. “You want to whip me? Now?”

“No, you daft ha’p’orth,” Spike said huskily. “It’s Shakespeare. It just means, like you told me once. ‘You don’t have to deserve stuff to get it.’” He tilted his head. “I think sometimes, the deserving comes after.”

Then Spike bent his head once more, mouthing the head of Riley’s cock with soft lips and then taking it into his mouth, though never releasing his hold – still denying him release.

Riley felt dizzy. He’d forgotten to breathe, and when he did, it came out as a kitten-sound that would have been embarrassing, except, what man could be blamed for the pathetic sounds he made, when Spike was between his legs, roughly shouldering his knees further apart and nuzzling into the hollows between his thighs; when the pads of Spike’s fingers were caressing and holding him open, gentle and merciless, and when Spike’s lips were _down there_ and oh, God, Jesus, the sweet blasphemy of it …

Spike’s mouth, that beautiful mouth, worshipping and tormenting him; Spike’s tongue, by turns so eloquent and so profane, flicking and stroking him. Either Spike or he himself must be a god or a devil: Spike to perform it; he to allow it.

As Spike stripped away his every defence, he begged feebly, “Oh no, please …” – for after this, the rest of his life must be laid barren; no more fruit on the vine, or honey in the comb. Then he was uttering curses and endearments by turns – ‘Jesus, fuck, please, oh God, Spike, love’ – and then all that was left inside were high-pitched, fractured whines and cries, spilling and spilling from him as Spike touched him everywhere; reduced him to a beast of the field. He threw his arm over his face so that Spike wouldn’t see his eyes filling with tears as he was held on the event horizon, where time meant nothing and there was only this …

… until Spike had pity on him at last and let him go – let him fly – with a single long finger pressed inside him, and Spike’s mouth giving comfort to his aching cock.

He came: and as he came, he cried out from the depths of his being; but still there was no respite. Spike’s fingernails raked along his ribs, forcing the aftershocks to break over him again and again, making him moan helplessly as the waves just kept forcing him back and back again.

Only after what seemed like eternity did they let him be: just lapping at his toes.

He felt washed clean, sanctified, and filled with golden light: the poison drawn.

“Oh God,” he said weakly: barely able to move a finger. “I think I died …”

There was a knock on the door.

An old voice – a female voice – enquired, “Are you okay in there? Are you in pain? Shall I call a doctor?”

Spike swallowed, released Riley’s cock and looked up at him. Licking his lips and blinking – the picture of innocence – Spike said, “I’m okay. How ’bout you?”

They looked at each other’s flushed faces, sticky chests, and messed up hair, and collapsed, gasping like dying fish, in helpless laughter,

“Yes we’re … fine,” Spike managed to call out when he’d stopped choking.

“Are you sure?”

Spike took a pillow and held it in front of himself as he tottered to the door and opened it. The old lady outside looked frail, but her eyes lit up, bright and mischievous, as she took in the sights.

Spike grinned at her. “Good on you for checking, but we’re fine thanks, Ducks.”

She peered around him. “Are you sure?”

“You’re okay aren’t you?” Spike said over his shoulder to Riley.

“I’m absolutely fine,” Riley called out, breathless and still laughing.

“Sorry to have … interrupted,” the lady said as she turned to leave.

“That’s quite alright. We’d finished,” Spike muttered, with a leer, then quickly closed the door, and leaned back against it, snorting.

“Hussy!” Riley cast a pillow in his general direction.

It landed well short.

“Yeah, shameless hussy – but you love it!”

Spike tongued his teeth and Riley blushed a deep shade of red, and pulled a sheet over his nakedness.

“_And_ you throw like a girl,” Spike added.

“Never did till I met you.”

Smiling to himself, Spike took a bottle from the mini-bar.

As he warmed the blood and mixed himself a blood and whiskey cocktail, he said, “Hey, Riley. That time … the day before the ‘Cleveland Breakout’ – Angel was there, right?”

“Yeah, we met up at your – well, I hesitate to call it a hotel. Your flop-house. Anyway, we met there and did some planning.”

“You were planning …” Spike said. “The whole time?”

Spike was trying to make it sound casual, but Riley sensed an undercurrent of renewed tension.

“Not the whole time. We managed to get in a few hours’ –”

“Few hours of what?”

Riley had a pretty good idea of where this was heading. “Well, we hit a few bars,” he dead-panned. “Then played a round of golf ...”

For once, it was Spike that didn’t get the joke; he wrinkled his nose. “Huh?”

Riley shook his head, bemused. “A few hours’ sleep! What else?”

“So you … slept. Both of you slept … in my room.”

Riley nodded, giving nothing away.

“But, while he was there he didn’t … try …” Spike lowered his voice as if afraid to ask: “… try it on with you?”

“Don’t worry,” Riley assured him. “He was a perfect gentleman.”

“Don’t joke about it – please,” Spike said, with unaccustomed humility. “Tell me he didn’t … you didn’t …”

The tremor he heard in Spike’s voice, and felt in his core told Riley that Spike was deadly serious. “Did Angel say …?”

The look on Spike’s face gave him his answer. Angel and his mind games ...

Riley rose from the bed and came up behind Spike, wrapped his arms around him tightly, and rested his chin on Spike’s shoulder. “Spike, you’re the _only_ one. And he didn’t try anything, I swear to God.”

“Sorry,” Spike said, looking embarrassed. “I knew he was pulling my leg …”

“If he had, I’d have … well, I wouldn’t have killed him, even if I could. I needed his help. But he’d have been sleeping in the stairwell, instead of on the floor in my sleeping-bag.”

Spike sighed and turned around in Riley’s arms. “I knew that,” he said, and closed his eyes.

~~

**Saturday 3rd February**

Spike sat bolt upright, his eyes wide. He touched a tentative hand to his mouth, and glanced quickly at it.

Thank God.

Only then did he dare to cast his gaze to his right where Riley was – yes, just sleeping; not unconscious. He’d bitten Riley last night: bitten him on the neck – a place he’d always denied himself until now – and he could see the mark he’d left; but in the dream that had woken him, it had been so much worse.

He touched Riley’s shoulder.

“Riley … wake up, pet.”

“What?” Riley was a little groggy, and less than overjoyed at being woken. “Wha’ time is it?”

Spike looked at the clock on the TV. “Oh. Sorry love. It’s only half-eight.”

“That’s, like midnight for you,” Riley said, rubbing his eyes. “Why are you awake so early?”

“Bad dream,” Spike said shortly.

At once, he felt Riley’s hand on his cheek; he leaned into it and covered it with his own.

“And I want to give Wesley a call, to check on the girl. He’ll be up by now won’t he?”

“Sure. He’ll be on his third cup of tea by now. Go ahead – his number’s on my mobile.”

Spike bit his lip. “Wanna do it for me?”

“You can use my phone, Spike,” Riley said, a question in his voice. “You’re hip to the twenty-first century.”

“Yeah, but … what do I say? ‘How’s dinner?’ … ‘How’s my victim doing?’ It’s embarrassing isn’t it. Especially after the load of codswallop I came out with a few days ago – making out I had more self-control than a barrel-load of Vulcans. That all went pear-shaped pretty damn quick.”

“He’ll be fine with you,” Riley assured him. He reached over to the nightstand and picked up his phone. “He’s pretty cool. One of the good guys.”

“Deserves better than the Ponce,” Spike grumbled.

Riley paused, his finger over the speed dial button, and looked up. “What d’you mean?”

“Oh. You didn’t know? Bloke’s got a crush a mile wide on Angel.”

Riley’s eyes widened a little. “He never mentioned …”

“Well, he wouldn’t, would he? He’s only known you five minutes. Probably didn’t think it was ‘appropriate.’ Gotta keep a stiff upper-lip.”

“So … are he and Angel –”

Spike shook his head. “Nah. Angel’s still obsessin’ over the Slayer, and/or Darla. Some little blonde. And even if he wasn’t, he’s not the brightest button in the box when it comes to that stuff. Probably hasn’t twigged, even now. Right pair they’d make anyway. Both so bloody repressed, they’d take a year to reach first base, and spend the next decade a joint angst-fest.”

Riley wrinkled his nose. “Poor Wes.”

“Give ’im time, he’ll get over it. Like I said, it’s just a crush. He needs to get out more, is all. Probably spends too much time with his nose stuck in some dusty old books, if I know my Watchers.”

Riley frowned, clearly concerned for his new buddy. “So … you don’t think this thing will go anywhere?”

“No. Nor should it,” Spike said firmly. “Liam’s a ladies’ man at heart. Always has been. He’ll take a man alright, but when he does, it’s mostly about showin’ you who’s boss, or sometimes just crushing you for sport.”

With mild astonishment, Spike noted the absence in his heart of the anger, resentment, or even embarrassment that such reminiscence usually brought. That was new. He shrugged. “Wesley doesn’t need that. I mean, look at him. He needs someone that’ll build him up, not flatten him.”

“I guess.” Riley paused, thinking. “You like him, then?”

“Wesley? Yeah … not, like _that_, but yeah … he seems like a good sort. Why? You got that look that says there’s something up your sleeve.”

“Maybe … Just an idea.” Riley started calling before Spike could interrogate him further. “Hi, Wes, it’s Riley.”

“Riley! Oh, good. I wondered where you’d got to.”

“‘Wilshire Grand.’”

“Huh! Very swanky! Well, you can tell Spike to stop worrying, if that’s why you called. The girl’s okay. Though I’m afraid they gave her an anti-rabies shot before I could think of a reason they shouldn’t.”

Spike winced. _Not_ a wild dog.

“She had a transfusion, and she’s been referred for psychological counselling and diagnostic tests. She was babbling about death being the only way to live, so they thought they’d better keep her in for observation.”

“Oh, well, that’s … great news. I suppose. I guess she must need help.” Riley touched the bite-mark on his neck reflexively, but he didn’t appear perturbed.

“How is Spike faring?” Wesley said quietly. “Is he alright?”

“Ask him yourself.”

Spike made frantic refusal gestures, but when Riley tossed the phone to him, he caught it with a grunt of resignation.

“Wes. Thanks for … you know. Takin’ care of things. That girl. And for lookin’ after my fella these last few days. I owe you.”

“Don’t mention it,” Wesley said. “He was a model house-guest. I hardly knew he was here.” He paused before continuing a little tentatively, “Angel told me what happened … why it happened. That it wasn’t your fault.”

“Did he now?” That was a shocker. “Um … that was decent of him. Bit of a false start to my new life, all the same.”

“I’m sure it must have been most distressing for you,” Wesley replied.

Once again, Spike was momentarily thrown; sympathy for the Devil: and from an ex-Watcher too.

“Yeah, well. What is it they say? ‘Every day, in every way, I’m getting better and better’?”

“That’s the spirit.” Wesley sounded like he was pepping Spike up, ready for the Big Push. “Anyway, Spike, I do hope you and Riley are intending to stop by at the Hyperion later today. Angel was most … well, he’s anxious to see you.”

This could be fun. “Is he now?” Spike said, trying not to sound too interested.

“Very much so,” Wesley replied fervently. “He doesn’t say it, but … please don’t go tearing off home without seeing him again.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Wes.” Spike heard Wesley sigh with relief. “Don’t tell him that, mind! Let him sweat for a bit.”

Wes sighed again, this time in exasperation. “But you will –”

“Yeah, we’ll be along. After sunset, okay?”

“Bless you, Spike.”

Spike gave the phone a dubious look. “Yeah, well …”

“So,” Wesley said, getting back to his usual business-like self: “Shall I pack up Riley’s things for him and bring them along there?”

Spike couldn’t see any reason he shouldn’t. “Yeah, that would be great. See you later then.”

“And we still have to have that talk you promised me.”

“See you, Wes.”

~~

Wesley had been hanging around expectantly in the back office for most of the latter part of the afternoon, trying to look busy, but unable to concentrate. In so far as Angel’s moods could be judged at all, he, too, seemed distracted. Wesley prayed that Spike hadn’t changed his mind: decided he’d rather not see Angel after all. If he were to send Riley to collect their possessions instead, Wesley didn’t know quite what Angel would do.

But he need not have worried, because as good as his word, half an hour after sundown, Spike pushed through the Hyperion front doors, tugging Riley along behind him.

Wesley decided to stay semi-concealed in the office for the moment, to see how Spike and Angel would deal with one another without his interference. He saw Spike nudging Riley in the ribs and pointing to where Angel was sitting behind the front desk.

Angel gave no sign that he’d heard them come in.

“Told you,” Spike said.

Angel looked up.

“Tosser!” Spike greeted him cheerfully.

“Oh … Spike. Riley. Hi,” Angel said, trying rather too hard to sound casual. He set his paperwork aside. “I didn’t know whether you’d show up. Thought you might have decided to just up and leave.”

“Couldn’t do that mate,” Spike said, batting his eyelids and smiling a smile of sweet reassurance.

“Oh.” Angel’s face lit up. “Why’s that?”

With every appearance of seriousness, Spike replied, “Left my coat here, didn’t I?”

Angel sagged. “Oh … yeah. Of course.”

Coming out of the back office, Wesley shook his head reproachfully at Spike.

Spike bit his lip. “I’ll just go get my stuff then, okay?”

“Yeah. Sure.” Angel bent his head to his papers again. “You do that.”

Spike winked at Wesley, and Wesley tutted impatiently. They really were as bad as each other. He scribbled something on Angel’s ink blotter, and then tapped pointedly on it.

Angel squinted at what Wesley’d written, and shifted in his chair. Looking embarrassed, he said, “Spike, you don’t have to rush off. Why don’t you and Riley stick around. Stay here for a night or two? Do your old man a favour. It’s not like we don’t have room, and it’s free.”

Spike eyed him suspiciously. “So … what’s in it for you?”

“Nothing! I just …” Angel shrugged helplessly. “Oh, do what you want, Spike. I just thought it would be … I dunno …” He picked up his pen and started writing on his blotter, not looking at Spike. “… nice, or something …”

Spike shot a smug grin at Riley. “No more tricks?” he said, kicking the Reception desk with a show of petulance.

“No more tricks, I swear.” Angel swallowed and looked up at Riley, then at Spike.

Spike ducked his head. “Guess it’s up to Riley then,” he said. “His folks are missing him something rotten.”

Spike kept his face carefully neutral, and Wesley suspected that if he’d tried for sincerity he’d have lost it completely.

“They miss you too, Spike,” Riley said seriously, looking Angel in the eye.

Wesley didn’t think he’d ever seen Angel look as vulnerable as he did right then, and he was mightily relieved when Riley – looking back fondly at Spike – said, “Alright. So long as it’s what Spike wants, it’s fine with me.”

Angel nodded briefly. “Great. That’s great.”

“We weren’t actually leaving town tonight anyway,” Riley admitted. “I have both cars in the auto shop, getting detailed.”

Wesley suppressed a smile.

“It’s a bit of a problem, actually. We don’t really want to drive all the way back to Iowa separately, so I was wondering – Wesley, do you feel like taking a trip out to the farm sometime? Spend a few days with us? I was thinking you could drive Spike’s car to our place, stay a few days, and then fly back. Your flight would be on us – and anything you spend on gas, of course.”

Wesley swallowed, suddenly almost overcome. He remembered so clearly the joy of being invited to stay with friends as a child, and the disappointment – no less crushing for being expected – when his parents sent polite refusals on his behalf, as they invariably did. It was a cruel irony that since he’d been free to make his own decisions – all his adult life – no one had ever asked him to be a guest in their home: until now.

Taking Wesley’s silence to mean that further persuasion was needed, Riley went on, “I’d let you take the SUV but it’s packed with munitions I wouldn’t want you getting caught with, and Spike’s car’s too conspicuous to take them in that.”

“Of course, I’d be delighted,” Wesley said, finally managing to get a sentence together. “That would be wonderful, yes.” He cast a pleading glance at Angel. “That is, if you can spare me?”

“Sure Wes,” Angel said gruffly. “Any time you like. We’re not busy, and Gunn’s finished his business in South Central.”

“It doesn’t have to be straight away,” Riley added. “Just, whenever’s convenient.”

Out of the corner of his eye Wesley saw Spike nudging Riley.

With barely perceptible reluctance, Riley added, “Angel – you’re invited too.”

“I am?” Angel’s brow creased as if he’d been given two shovels and told to take his pick.

Riley sighed. “Sure. But honestly? I can’t see you having much fun on a farm in the middle of nowhere. Precious little cover, and not much demonic evil to fight in Iowa.”

“Yeah, and believe me, I’ve looked,” Spike said, with heartfelt disgust.

“You’re right of course,” Angel conceded, regretful but at the same time, somewhat relieved. “The city … LA. That’s where I’m needed. I should probably stay here.”

When Wesley saw the resignation in every line of Angel’s body, his heart clenched. He’d have given anything to lighten the burden. If only he were stronger: could find some steel in his backbone, like that other, darker version of himself he’d glimpsed in those strange visions. It must be in there somewhere. He rubbed his lower back reflexively.

“So.” Spike’s voice broke into his reverie. “Nap-time?”

“You only just got up!” Riley protested.

“Yeah, but I wasn’t napping!” Spike said mischievously.

Angel and Wesley tried not to look at each other, and Riley gave Spike a reproachful dig in the ribs.

“What?” Spike said. “I was watchin’ the telly.”

Riley turned to the others. “Sorry,” he said. “He gets like this when he’s over-tired.”

Then Wesley and Angel watched in mild astonishment, as Riley Finn took William the Bloody firmly by the hand, and led him – un-protesting – up to his room.

~~

Spike found his room mercifully free of cheerleaders, dead or alive. Not only that, but it had been tidied up by some kind, or guilt-ridden person. A momentary panic quickly subsided when he saw his coat hanging on the back of the door.

Riley’s overnight bag sat near the dresser, and Riley went and opened it. He sniffed suspiciously, then reddened slightly.

“What’s up?”

“These are fresh out of the tumble dryer,” Riley said, grateful but embarrassed.

“No shit, Sherlock.” Spike raised an eyebrow. “That Wesley’ll make someone a lovely little wife one day.”

The remark earned him a playful swat on the behind. “It’s not effeminate to be able to look after your own stuff,” Riley told him.

“Or your mate’s?” Spike said grinning. “I tell you, me and the ex-Watcher’ll be having words if he’s ironed your smalls.”

“Yeah – because that’s your prerogative.”

“As if,” Spike grunted.

“Well, I might insist on it, if you’re gonna wear this.” Riley was digging something out of his pocket.

“What’s that then?”

Spike felt suddenly nervous. For a microsecond, the uncomfortable idea that it might be some kind of collar fleeted across his mind, but he quickly dismissed it. What then? It couldn’t be a ring. Maybe a chain or bracelet: something in the Goth metal idiom, perhaps, with a skull motif, or runes, or a dragon.

Riley held out a jewellers’ envelope, and Spike took it, slightly embarrassed. Still: at least it wasn’t a padded presentation box.

“I wondered what secret mission you were on. Didn’t think it could have taken all afternoon to get the cars sorted.”

He opened the envelope with clumsy fingers, and tipped it over his palm. “Oh ...”

Breathing hard, Spike looked at what he held in his hand. He turned the ring – a design of leaves twined around each other, in gold and silver metals – between his thumb and forefinger, examining it intently as he collected himself.

At last he said, “That’s fuckin’ beautiful.”

Riley huffed out a breath. “It’s not magic,” he said, apologetic.

“Yeah,” Spike assured him, looking up at last. “Yeah, it is.”

“I just wanted to … I mean, after you got me that ring, I wanted to get you one straight off, but then, I didn’t want you to think it was just a reflex. That I didn’t really mean …”

Spike just looked at Riley, with his head on one side, his lips slightly parted.

Riley swallowed. “But ever since then, I’ve been worried you might have thought I didn’t feel …”

He paused, waiting for some sign – reassurance – but for once, Spike couldn’t think of anything to say.

“If you don’t want to wear it, that’s … I mean … I know silver’s more your thing, and this is gold. That bit that looks like silver – it’s not, it’s white gold –”

Taking pity on him, Spike stemmed the flow of words with a finger to Riley’s lips.

“Shhh!” he said. “You’re thinking again. It’ll rot your brain you know.” He kissed Riley softly and dropped the ring into his palm. “Well … you gonna do the honours? Make an honest vamp of me?”

Riley smiled that frank, open smile of his: the one that made Spike’s heart hurt.

“Sure,” Riley said, fumbling with the ring.

“This is it then,” Spike said, a little breathlessly.

“This is it,” Riley confirmed, looking steadily at him.

“I might have to do something sappy now,” Spike warned him quietly.

“Please, go ahead,” Riley said as he finally managed to put the ring on Spike’s finger. “I’ll surely feel better if you do.”

Keeping tight hold of Riley’s hands, Spike looked down at them as he began, “I know I’m not much of a catch, and a bloke like you could have done a lot better for himself –”

Riley opened his mouth to protest but Spike held a hand up to stop him, and continued, haltingly at first, but gaining confidence as he went.

“– but I take you, Riley Finn – if you’ll have me. My friend, partner, lover, whatever you want to call it. Gonna keep you safe. Defend you against all-comers, no matter what happens, demons, apocalypses, parallel universes, I don’t care what, I’m sticking with you. Richer, poorer. All that crap.”

He swallowed and raised his head to look Riley in the eye. “You get the lot, for what it’s worth. My hand. My arse. My cock – you own every part of me – but most of all – my heart. My love.”

The look on Riley’s face – so proud and … happy – it almost made Spike look behind him, to see whether it was meant for someone else.

“You’re wrong about one thing,” Riley said. “About, doing better for myself. I can’t see how. Can’t do better than to have the person you love, loving you right back.”

“S’pose not,” Spike said.

Still holding onto Spike’s hand, Riley said, “My turn?”

Spike inclined his head in assent, then Riley spoke as though primed for the moment.

“Entreat me not to leave you, or to return from following after you, for where you go, I will go, and where you stay, I will stay. Your friends will be my friends, and your loves will be my loves. Death shall never part you from me.”

Spike blinked. “You been rehearsing?”

Riley shrugged, admitting guilt.

Spike frowned, cocked his head, glanced at the door, and began stalking towards it while extending the impromptu ceremony with the volume turned up a notch.

“In the presence of Angel – who’s probably eaves-dropping from his desk – and Harmony and Genevieve, _**listening outside the door –**_”

This last was growled, as he flung open the aforementioned door, revealing the startled pair.

“Oops!” Genevieve jumped backwards, clapping a hand to her mouth.

“Sorry!” Harmony squeaked. “But, you guys! You’re so …!”

With a low threatening rumble rising in his throat, Spike let his game-face come slowly to the fore, and the girls backed away down the hallway, giggling nervously behind their hands, then turned and made off, squealing.

~~


	12. Compensations

**Saturday 3rd February (contd.)**

They were still on top of the covers, fully dressed – he and Riley, locked together, as they’d fallen asleep, with Riley’s arms wrapped around him like hoops round a barrel, and one of Riley’s thighs comfortingly snug between his own – when there was a tentative knock on the bedroom door.

Spike disengaged himself with care, and Riley grunted and rolled over, as Spike, rubbing his eyes, went to see who was there.

“Oh, you again,” Spike greeted Harmony. “We don’t want any cookies, thanks.”

He made as if to shut the door in her face, then opened it again, and grinned at her downcast expression.

“Sorry to disturb you … again,” she said. “But Angel asked me to invite you – uh, both of you –”

“Who is it?” Riley mumbled sleepily.

“Just some blonde. You don’t know ’er.”

Harmony pouted and tried to peer around Spike into the room, but he blocked the doorway – just because he could – and Harmony, puffing disconsolately, resumed her message.

“Anyway, the Big Cheese told me to invite you to his suite for a party. Oops!” She clapped a hand over her mouth. “I mean – ‘a get-together for the whole team, and associates’.” She bobbed from side to side as she corrected herself. “He’s been reading ‘Be a Better Boss, For Dummies’, she added, in an apologetic whisper. “I saw it on his desk! And he has something for you Spike. But don’t tell him I told you. He’s waiting for the right moment to give it to you.”

“What kind of something?” Spike demanded, instantly wary.

“Something cool. You’ll _really_ like it.” Then she added enviously, “I mean _**really.**_ I know I would.”

Though Spike racked his brains, he couldn’t think of a single thing that he and Harmony would both want. Clutching at straws, he said, “Can’t be nail varnish. You wear pink.”

She just smiled secretively.

“Is it bigger than a breadbox?” he asked, to test her resolve.

Harmony frowned in consternation.

“Hmm ...” Spike raised an eyebrow. “Must be pretty close to breadbox-sized then.”

Harmony slapped at his arm. “I’m not playing!” she protested. “You always win!”

“No. I just always beat _you_,” Spike said, smiling sweetly.

For a moment, he watched the wheels grinding in her brain, but – rather than wait the few millennia it would take her to come up with a witty retort – he shrugged and said, “Okay. We’ll be along in a bit.”

He stuck his head back in, to check with Riley. “Okay?”

“Sure,” Riley said, stretching luxuriously. “Dunno what I’m agreeing to, but you’re the boss.”

Mission accomplished, Harmony trotted away and Spike shut the door.

“What d’you reckon Angel wants to give me?” he asked Riley.

“Angel wants to …” Riley contemplated the possibilities, double entendres and all, if the face he was pulling was anything to go by. “Did he ever give you anything before?”

“Never anything I wanted,” Spike said, mirroring Riley’s scrunched-up expression. “But I’m all curious now. Have to see what it is, don’t I? Two pressies in one day. Must be my official birthday. Didn’t realise I’d been crowned Queen of England in my absence.”

“Huh?” Riley shook his head and stifled a yawn.

“Nothing,” Spike said quickly. That gob of his would get him into trouble one of these days.

“It’s just that the Queen gets two birthdays,” he explained, trying to sound bored with the whole topic. “Her real one, and her official one.”

Riley frowned. “How is that fair?”

“Well, that’s the bleedin’ monarchy for you. ’s not meant to be fair, that’s the whole point. ‘Anarchy for the bloody UK’ I say.” Spike fisted the air. “About as likely as ‘Peace in our time’, that is. Bloody English, nation of bloody forelock-tugging –”

“So when is _your_ birthday?” Riley demanded. “We’ve been together over a year and you haven’t celebrated one yet. You just keep fobbing me off. Why do you do that? You can’t be worried about getting old!”

Spike scowled. “I don’t talk about it.”

“Why not?” Riley persisted. Then he faltered under Spike’s obstinate glare. “Oh no. Something really bad happened on your birthday …”

The concern in Riley’s eyes made Spike’s decision for him. Have to ’fess up eventually, and now he was about to say it out loud: well, it seemed a bit trivial really.

“I’ll tell you why not, mate,” he said. “Because I’m stuck with the most embarrassin’ sign of the sodding zodiac, that’s why.”

“You believe in all that …” Riley looked doubtful. “I was gonna say, ‘crap’…?”

“’Course not. But before I was vamped, my so-called friends never tired of using the fact that I was born on August the twenty-first – in the sign of Virgo – as an excuse for mockery,” Spike said. “A day earlier and I’d have been fine. No one takes the piss out of a ‘Leo’, right?”

Yeah, that would have made all the difference …

Riley laughed. “Well, why don’t _you_ have an official birthday? How about today? You like getting presents, right?”

“Ye-ah! Doesn’t everyone?” Spike brightened. “Okay, what’s the date?”

“Third of February.”

Riley had said it without even having to stop and think. Poor kid was probably crossing off the days on his mental calendar, till they could go back to the farm. He wasn’t the only one. Spike too, felt a yearning to get back there, growing stronger every day.

“Well, what do you think?” Riley broke into his musings.

Spike made an executive decision. “Dunno what sign the third of February is, but it can’t be worse than what I’ve got, so it’s alright with me,” he said firmly. “Come on then. Let’s get to my party.” He bounced on his heels. “Do you think Dad’s bought me a Play Station?”

~~

As they made their way towards Angel’s suite, Spike’s good mood began to evaporate, leaving suspicion crystallising in its place. When he thought about it, for Angel to organise any kind of social gathering, let alone a party, was so uncharacteristic as to border on the surreal.

What was Angel playing at?

Perhaps it was mean-spirited to think this way, but the whole thing stank of a set-up, designed to lull him into a false sense of security. But Spike wasn’t about to be lulled. If the ‘present’ he was about to receive was a wooden delivery straight to the heart, for the edification of Team Angel, then Harmony was welcome to it.

Spike stuck a hand in his pocket, and felt the carved surface of his own stake – oddly comforting – beneath his fingers.

“Something wrong?” Riley asked him.

“Probably nothing,” Spike replied. “Stay sharp though, yeah?”

Riley nodded. “Of course.”

The door to Angel’s suite was closed and there was no spill of light from beneath it, but Spike could tell there were a few warm bodies inside, so he braced himself for the inevitable. He muttered, “Here goes nothing” – and opened the door. The lights went on, a chorus of voices shouted: “Surprise!” and a tangle of coloured streamers was thrown over them.

“Oh, you shouldn’t have,” Spike said dryly, knocking the offending items off his own head, and Riley’s shoulders.

He squinted at the assembled group.

Not many surprises there. The usual suspects: Angel, Wesley, Genevieve, Cordelia, Harmony, and – the one responsible for throwing the streamers – that green bloke from the bar: Lorne. The ones he didn’t recognise were a black guy, who must be the one named ‘Gun’, and a puffy-faced fellow in whom Cordelia was displaying an inordinate amount of interest. He looked like he was in software.

“How is this a surprise?” Spike said, sounding a little bitchy even to his own ears. “You invited us to a party, and this looks pretty much like a party to me, absence of dancing girls notwithstanding.”

“Well, you didn’t expect the lights to be out did you?” Lorne hazarded.

Spike shrugged. “Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t.”

He took the drink Lorne handed him, and knocked it back. Then he looked at the coffee table and gawped.

“This, on the other hand, is definitely a surprise.”

Angel had food: party food: and it was the kind you used to get on a Sunday-School outing. Tiny sandwiches with the crusts cut off; little iced cakes; sausage rolls; cheese and pineapple on sticks and such-like. If this was a fatted calf, it was most definitely lame.

Spike stole a glance at Angel, and decided that he found Sire Version 4.0 distinctly unsettling. While somehow managing to maintain a faintly presidential air, the old man was even wearing a party hat; but then, Angel would do just about anything if he had an important aim in mind.

Spike squeezed Riley’s arm, hard, to make sure he wasn’t nodding off; but Riley, keyed in by the ring to Spike’s simmering anxiety, was already glancing around and sizing people up.

On the pretext of scrutinising the snacks, Spike discreetly scented the air, and was somewhat reassured. While Cordelia’s protégé might need to change his armour before the night was much further advanced, there was no indication that the other party-goers were feeling anything, other than relaxed, and ready to have fun.

Angel _had_ promised no tricks – and he’d seemed sincere.

Spike prepared himself to consider the possibility that he was being paranoid; that for once, everything was exactly as strange as it appeared, and no more.

Whatever was going on, only one thing was certain in this brave new world.

“I need another drink,” Spike said.

With almost supernatural prescience, Angel was already placing a whiskey in his hand. “Come on, Spike, Riley.” He hustled them along with disturbing bonhomie. “Come and meet the gang.”

“Okaaay, let’s party,” Spike said.

Angel led them straight to the nerdy-looking bloke, who looked like he might be about to spontaneously combust with excitement.

“Spike, this is David Nabbit. He owns a …” Angel frowned, the data temporarily eluding him. “A software company …?” he concluded uncertainly. “He helped us out with getting this place – and some other legal stuff. David, this is Spike, one of my associates. Also known as, ‘William the Bloody’ –”

Angel gave the intonation of his name an eldritch twist, and the awed and terrified David Nabbit gave Spike’s hand the over-hearty shake of a man with more adrenaline in his veins than he knows what to do with.

Spike cocked an eyebrow at Angel, who – as usual – seemed oblivious.

“– and Riley Finn, covert ops, who I’m hoping we’ll be seeing a lot more of,” Angel said, laughing self-consciously. “’Cause if you can’t see him, you’re already dead!”

Riley looked askance at Spike, who shrugged, then at Angel, who avoided his eyes, and moved them along.

“Spike, you already know Cordelia from Sunnydale –”

“We were never formally introduced,” Cordelia said archly. “There was that whole ‘attacking us and killing our teachers’ thing, and then there was the part where you abducted my boyfriend and threw him together with that little tramp …”

Cordelia was advancing on him, a threatening index finger primed, and ready to fire.

Spike backed up with his hands raised.

Angel frowned slightly. “Cordy …”

“Okay! Letting bygones be bygones!” Cordelia said. “Spike’s our friend now, all safe and cuddly, like a big puppy. I get it.”

“Hey!” Spike protested.

“Good! Great!” Angel said heartily.

Nevertheless, Cordelia showed no sign of relaxing her grip on the large cross in her right hand, and all things considered, Spike couldn’t really blame her. It was reassuring really; at least with Cordelia, he knew where he stood.

“And Cordy, this is Riley Finn, Spike’s partner.”

Spike took a firmer hold on Riley’s arm. It hadn’t escaped his notice that Cordelia had been slyly checking his man out since they’d walked in the door. You could almost hear her salivating.

“Riley!” She flashed a dazzling row of choppers, and batted her eyelashes in what someone with a sense of humour must have told her was an alluring manner. “So! How did you two meet?”

“How did we …?” Riley began. “Oh. Well, that’s a bit of a long story …”

A long story, the whole of which was distilled in the look he now exchanged with Spike. Their gazes still locked, Riley went on as though Cordelia wasn’t there. “I was in a covert demon-fighting unit, and –”

Cordelia glanced from one to the other, and rolled her eyes. “Office romance?” she said, sounding bored already.

“Kind-of,” Riley conceded, shaking his head.

“Cut a long story short, why don’t you?” Spike said, glaring at Cordelia.

“Talking of demon-fighting units …” Angel cut in. “Riley, come and meet Gunn. You have some things in common. He runs his own demon-fighting outfit in South Central.”

Shop-talk. Fan-bloody-tastic.

“Why can’t I ever meet a nice guy like that?” Cordelia whispered to Genevieve, indicating Riley’s retreating back.

“Why don’t you say what you really mean?” Spike said sharply. He didn’t want to tag along to the demon extermination conference anyway, so he turned back towards her.

“And the prize for the biggest ears goes to …” Cordelia shot back, with a saccharin smile. “So enlighten me, Bleach Boy. What do I really mean?”

Then Spike wished he’d kept his trap shut. Now he’d have to say what they were both thinking. “Well, I guess you’re wondering, ‘What does a nice bloke like Riley see in Spike?’”

Cordelia looked straight back at him, unfazed. “Well, you must admit, he’s not your usual type is he?”

“Not crazy you mean?” Spike said bluntly.

“Well, I _was_ going to say, ‘not evil-blood-sucking-crazy like you’,” Cordelia said. She glanced sidelong at Genevieve. “No offence.”

“I haven’t eaten anyone in months,” Spike protested. “Well, not deliberately …”

“Like you could have!” Cordelia retorted. At his worried look she relented a little. “Don’t mind me. Wesley says that I should give you the benefit of the doubt. I don’t know from science, but I guess even a leech might turn into a butterfly. I mean, look at me. I was quite the queen bitch in High School –”

“Hard to believe,” Spike murmured.

She didn’t hear him. “I’m not a saint now –”

“Just a gold-digger,” Spike said with a sly glance in David Nabbit’s direction.

She heard that one alright, and punched him on the arm. “Hey!” But then she had the grace to acknowledge the hit, saying quietly, “It’s in a good cause.”

“What, keeping up your gym fees and augmenting your collection of Manolos?” Spike stuck his tongue out.

Cordelia looked daggers at him; but this time the blades retracted on contact.

Okay then. Always leave ’em wanting more.

Spike grabbed a jello shot, looked to see where Riley’d got to, and found him still talking weapons – homemade versus hi-tech – with the demon-fighter.

Spike eyed them suspiciously. Seeing them so deep in conversation gave him a queasy feeling. It was irrational: he knew it was. The resemblance between Riley’s new acquaintance and his old comrade Forrest were just superficial; there was no sense of the vicious thuggery he remembered in Forrest’s every line and gesture, nor any sexual undercurrents between the two of them. Maybe he should hold off – keep his cool for the time being; Riley didn’t need smothering.

Feeling virtuous, Spike left the boys comparing the sizes of their stakes.

He spotted Genevieve, sitting alone, and looking a little overwhelmed, so he sauntered over to her. It was past time they caught up.

“How are you doing, pet?”

“Well, Angel’s letting me use one of the downstairs rooms to start a de-tox clinic for vamp junkies, and I’ve already got some talks scheduled –”

“Yeah, great,” Spike said. “You got a runaway to-do list. But I asked ‘how?’ not ‘what?’ Spotlight’s been on yours truly for long enough, with the surgery and what-all. I’ve even had _you_ runnin’ round after me. But you’ve had a rough time yourself, and you don’t have to paste on a happy face for me, love. We were both there. So, I say again – ‘_How_ are you doing?’”

“Oh. That.” Genevieve chewed on her thumb. “Well, Harmony’s helping me with the anger …”

Spike’s mind boggled at the prospect of Harmony as a therapist. “Guess I gave her plenty reasons to be angry,” he admitted.

Genevieve looked puzzled. “She never said so.”

“Oh. Well, good …”

“And the nightmares aren’t so bad … now. But I still see their faces sometimes. I dream about biting them – killing them – and their blood makes me sick. Sometimes I wish I’d killed them as they slept. I guess I was too weak and scared to think of it. Anyway, there’s no point getting all cross about it. Maybe none of them made it out of there.” She lowered her voice. “I know it’s wrong of me, but I hope they didn’t.”

“No.” Spike said firmly. “Perhaps with my record, I’m not one to judge, but I don’t think it’s wrong. After what they did. Bought us, and …”

It was painful to think about what they’d both been through: the thing that connected them. He wasn’t sure why he’d even brought it up. LA must be getting to him. Perhaps it was better to just try and forget it.

“Anyway, if you hadn’t been able to put them in thrall like you did, there’s no way you’d have walked out of there.” Spike shrugged and pinned on a maniacal grin. “Me? I hope demons ate their gizzards and chewed their knees off.” He touched his hand to her cheek. “And I’m right sorry I didn’t deal with them for you, Gen. Would have, but I was a bit –”

“Tied up?” Genevieve said, with a little smirk. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for. You’re the reason I’m here now – you and your friends.”

“You helped me too,” Spike said. “Tried to, anyway. Nearly got your head bit off for it, but you tried. Appreciate it. Thanks.”

He took another drink, knocked it back, and briefly slung an arm around her shoulders. “Made it through, didn’t we?”

“Yeah. We really did,” she said, looking up at him with a satisfied smile.

Glancing around, Spike noticed that Angel was standing apart: looking faintly pathetic, his glass half-empty and the paper crown on his head all skewiff.

“’scuse us. Have to go have a word with His Highness now.”

He snagged an unattended glass of wine, edged his way past Lorne and David Nabbit – who were negotiating safe demonic hospitality packages for David’s out of town business partners – and wandered over to Angel.

“So, just between you and me, what’s all this in aid of?” Spike said quietly. “Trying to prove you’re not a sad git, with no mates, and fewer social skills?”

Angel looked wounded. He must have been practising that look, because it almost had Spike convinced.

“I just wanted my team to meet you properly,” Angel insisted.

Spike didn’t believe he’d heard correctly. Had Angel really said, ‘Wanted _them_ to meet _you_’?

“And Riley of course,” Angel added.

“Why?” Spike demanded, still suspicious. “And what was that about seeing more of Riley?”

“You’ll find out soon enough,” Angel said, rocking slightly on his heels.

_“Fine!”_ Spike knocked back the wine, and banged the glass down on a convenient shelf right by Angel’s head. “Have your little secrets. Doesn’t bother me.”

He went and poured himself another drink, then looked around for Riley. With a pang of jealousy, he saw that his partner was still engrossed in conversation across the coffee table, with Bullet; and they looked like they were settling in for the evening.

He’d tried to be good – tried not to let it get the better of him – but now Spike felt an urgent need to break up the impromptu demon-hunters’ convention. He wandered over and hunkered down beside Riley.

“Guess you must be ‘Gun’,” he said brusquely, looking his rival for Riley’s attention in the eye. “Nice moniker.”

The man met his gaze levelly: pretending not to notice anything wrong with Spike’s tone.

“It’s my real name. ‘Gunn’ with two enns. I guess you must be Spike. Sorry we haven’t met earlier, but I haven’t been around much lately – my crew needed me to help with training a couple of new guys. Then I got roped into some maintenance work on the armoury.”

“Sharpening bits of wood,” Spike clarified.

But ‘Gunn with two enns’ was a cool customer; he raised an eyebrow, but still he didn’t bite. “We don’t just fight vamps,” he said calmly.

“Good to know,” Spike replied. “Spike. Pleased to meet you, I’m sure.”

He reached a hand across the coffee table to shake Gunn’s hand, but hissed in sudden pain, and sent potato chips and jello-shots flying, along with Cordelia’s cross which had been lying half-hidden amongst the party debris.

Gunn quickly hid a snicker behind a cough.

Spike grimaced at Cordelia. “Wanna be careful where you stick those things, love.”

“It’s for your own good, Spike,” she said, shrugging, and retrieving her weapon. “If you ate me for real, Angel would have to kill you, and he doesn’t need that trauma. This way, everyone’s covered, see?” She thrust the cross playfully towards his face.

Spike jerked backwards. “I notice you’re not pointing that thing at Harmony!” he said, a little plaintively.

“Harmony’s my friend, and she’s kosher.”

Spike grinned, and caught Gunn suppressing a smirk.

“Or Genevieve,” Spike added.

“Genevieve is a vegetarian,” Cordelia countered.

Gunn shook his head in mock despair. “All you gray area vampires are makin’ my life too complicated. Time was, I saw fangs, all I had to do was a bit of dustin.’ I have to have a debate with a dude before I kill ’em now, just in case?”

“A stranger vamps out at you, don’t hesitate,” Spike said bluntly, then dead-panned, “Or if it’s Angel.”

“Hey!” Angel said from behind him. “Shut up, Spike.”

Spike bristled. “Don’t tell me what to do. Wanker.”

The temperature dropped a few degrees. Beside him, Riley grew tense; Spike put a restraining hand on his arm, and reached for another shot: not doing Angel the courtesy of turning to face him. He felt Angel squat down behind him, then almost yelped in surprise when the glass was taken out of his hand.

“Slow down, Spike,” Angel muttered. “And would you please try and show a bit of respect, even if you have to fake it? Most of these people work for me, and – last time I looked – so do you.”

Well, didn’t that just take the bloody biscuit?

“Yeah, sure, Angel,” Spike said sourly, not giving a toss who heard him. “I still work for you. Sending you a load of mouldy old crap and taking your money for it. Maybe next time I’ll just sit at home and buy it on E-bay, instead of riskin’ life and limb, so you can take the piss.”

Though no one else had really been listening, the jagged edge to Spike’s voice quickly cut short all the other conversations in the room. Concerned and puzzled faces turned towards them.

Riley looked uneasily from one to the other.

Spike understood that Riley was giving them the chance to work it out, but – surrounded as he was by Angel’s team – it was good to know Riley was there, if back-up were needed. It took all his nerve to hold his position with his back to Angel: not looking at him, even once.

The yawning silence was broken by a brittle laugh from Angel.

“Hey! I nearly had you with that one, didn’t I, Spike?”

Angel rested a hand on his shoulder, and squeezed slightly, before levering himself up, and rubbing his thighs. “‘E-bay!’” he said, shaking his head.

Spike frowned, quickly sobering up. He too, got to his feet, facing Angel; studying his eyes.

“Yeah … that was a good one Peaches,” he said uncertainly.

Conversations were quietly picked up, with significant glances between the participants, still alert for trouble.

“Yeah, we laugh about it now,” Angel said. He was smiling, but his eyes were anxious.

“Yeah,” Spike said. Of course; how could he have forgotten? “We do, don’t we?”

When the other conversations had resumed for real, Angel steered Spike towards the kitchen, saying, “Come on. Let’s get some of the good stuff.”

With a discreet jerk of his head, Spike indicated to Riley that he should follow.

~~

“I didn’t mean it when I said that, okay?” Angel said, speaking loudly enough that Riley would be able to hear him, as well as Spike. “I thought you knew. Didn’t mean any of the things I said that day.”

“None of it?” Spike wondered whether the hopeful lift to his voice had betrayed how fragile he still felt about that whole episode. He felt Riley’s hand resting on his back.

“Not one word of it,” Angel said seriously. “Not the bad stuff anyway.”

“Huh.”

They sat down around the table, and Angel poured some of the single malt he’d evidently been reluctant to share with the common herd, into three glasses, and pushed one towards each of them.

As Spike reached for his drink, Angel noticed the ring on his finger. He touched it; his face seemed to go into soft-focus. He glanced at Riley.

“Nice,” Angel said.

Riley nodded, relaxing a little.

Feeling a little foolish, Spike studied his drink for a moment, then knocked it back.

“Well, anyway,” he said quietly. “About this ‘working for you’ palaver. Cleveland branch of AI is closed. I – we decided –” He looked up at Riley. “We’re sticking together from now on.”

Riley shot him a look that was relieved and happy, if a little surprised.

“Well, that’s … great, actually,” Angel said. “Because I was thinking – farming has slack periods, right?”

Riley nodded.

“And I guess those are pretty much when we’re busiest here. So I’ve been thinking – if Wolfram &amp; Hart are in retreat over this Apocalypse, maybe this is our chance to be more pro-active, instead of just handling whatever comes through the front door. We could do patrols and stuff, like Buffy and her friends do in Sunnydale. Run self-defence classes for the kids who have to live on the street. Educate people properly about how to keep themselves safe, maybe even register as a charity. But I’d need to expand the team to handle it.”

Angel topped up their glasses, then turned to Riley, and said, “You’re pretty useful, and my confidence in Spike’s abilities goes without saying.”

“Literally,” Spike spluttered. He nearly snorted Glenfiddich out of his nose, and that would have been a waste.

“So I was hoping you’d consider coming here and helping out,” Angel went on. “Both of you – just when you’re not busy on the farm. You don’t have to decide straight away, but –”

“Got it all worked out have you?” Spike said, having recovered his composure.

“Well, no. Not all. It might not happen. We might not get funding. That’s up to my staff, in a way …”

Spike peered out into the living room; Cordelia was draping herself over that software bloke, who was in earnest conversation with a puzzled- or possibly bored-looking Wesley.

Spike shook his head. “So that’s what this ‘Meet and Greet’ nonsense is for. Corporate schmoozing. I’m shocked, Angel, truly. Whoring your staff out …”

“She likes him!” Angel insisted. “Well, some things about him … green, paper-y things …”

“I meant Wesley,” Spike said innocently.

Angel wrinkled his nose. “So … what do you think?”

Spike cast a doubtful glance at Riley; he looked like he didn’t know what to make of it either.

“Look here, Angel. Thanks for the offer, but this is a bit out of the blue, and we’ve all had a bit of a few days of it. What say we let the idea gestate for a bit, then give you an answer, alright?”

“I guess,” Angel said. “But I want to go ahead with this, and if the finance is there, I’d be very glad to have you both on the team.”

“Get a big enough gang together, you could take time off, to go get your soul made permanent,” Spike suggested. “Or have you conveniently forgotten my very helpful idea?”

Angel looked uneasy. “Maybe.”

“Maybe what?” Spike said impatiently. “Maybe you’ve forgotten or maybe you’ll do it?”

“Maybe I’ll do it.”

Spike knew he was being fobbed off. “What’s to stop you? Oh! I know! Might just give yourself a chance at happiness you don’t think you deserve, right?”

Angel shrugged. “You know me so well.”

Spike was still shaking his head in mock-despair when Harmony tottered into the kitchen, sat down next to Angel, and stage-whispered – “When are you going to give Spike his present?”

“Oh. Yeah!” Angel brightened: glad of the excuse to shift attention away from himself. “Excuse me.”

He disappeared into his bedroom, and when he came back, he rather formally handed over a flat packet, about eighteen inches by twelve.

“Spike,” he said. “I thought you might like to have this.”

“So what’s this? The Golden Hello?” Spike took it, holding it at arm’s length. He raised an eyebrow. “Is it a breadbox?”

“Open it!” Riley, Angel and Harmony chorused, in frustration.

He turned it over, feeling it through the – as ever, no expense spared – brown paper in which it was wrapped. It felt like a picture frame. He hoped to God it wasn’t one of the pornographic sketches Angel had done of him or Dru, back in the day. Couldn’t be; Harmony said she’d have liked to have whatever it was, and she probably wouldn’t have wanted one of those.

On the other hand …

Just in case, he turned it around, so that he would be the first person to see whatever was in the frame; then he unwrapped it with care.

“Bloody hell!”

His own face was looking back at him out of a plain metal frame, but it wasn’t a picture.

“How …?”

“It’s the one I sent _you_ to find.”

“Steal,” Spike corrected him.

“Obtain,” Angel compromised. “Anyway, while you were busy killing some demon who’d pissed you off, I got lucky – spotted it leaning against the wall. Someone must have left it behind in the panic. So I … stuck it under my coat,” Angel said with a self-deprecating smile.

“You nicked it!” Spike said grinning.

“Well, not exactly … I liberated it.”

“So …” Spike’s eyes widened in wonder, then narrowed again. “And you’re giving it to me? Why? I bet it’s gonna suck me through into some other dimension isn’t it? Or else try and steal the soul I don’t have.”

“No!” Angel said. He seemed shocked that Spike would think him capable of such perfidy. “No. It’s just that it’s a little too small for my purposes.”

“Your head’s not that big, and neither’s your –”

“Hey!”

“You’re really giving me this thing?” Spike said. “A Magic Thingamabob you were willing to pay nearly a grand for?”

“I heard that!” Cordelia called out from the other room.

For her benefit, Angel said, more loudly: “It’s no more than you’re entitled to. Just call it workman’s comp. For injuries suffered in the performance of your duties.”

Spike snorted. “Fortunes of War mate. I don’t hold you responsible. I should have been more careful.”

“Alright then. Let’s say, I was hoping that when you see how ridiculous you look, you’ll do something about that hair.”

Spike was losing his appetite for baiting the old man, but how could he resist a dig when it was offered him on a plate? “Obviously didn’t work for you, did it?” he said.

Angel cast a glance at Riley that said, ‘How do you put up with him?’

Riley just smiled.

“Well, pretend it’s your birthday,” Angel said, huffing out a sigh.

“Funny you should say that –”

“And who says I need an excuse to give you something?” Angel demanded.

“Complete this phrase – ‘Blood … stone’.”

Angel’s face went blank; he looked down at his hands.

That must have really hurt.

“So … how’s it work anyway?” Spike said, quickly changing the subject.

“We don’t know for sure,” Angel replied, pulling himself together. “Wesley has a few theories though.” He got up and went to the door. “Hey, Wes! Would you come in here and give us the benefit of your expertise?”

“Yes of course!”

Wesley seemed only too eager to take his leave of David Nabbit. He narrowly avoided tripping over everyone and their drinks, and managed not to pop any balloons on the way to the kitchen.

Spike looked at Riley, and raised an eyebrow significantly.

“Would you explain your theories on how this gizmo works?” Angel said.

“I’d be delighted to try!” Wesley replied, beaming. “It’s fascinating isn’t it? I couldn’t find anything about this particular item in any of my books, and the artefact doesn’t appear especially ancient, so I – and I hope you don’t mind Angel – but I phoned Sunnydale, and had a word with Willow, to see whether she knew of any enchantments that might have been laid on a normal mirror.”

“Did you speak to Buffy?” Spike said sharply.

Wesley and Angel turned towards in him in surprise.

“No. She was out on patrol,” Wesley said. “And I doubt very much that she’d have spoken to me if she’d been there. I fear even Willow only tolerates me out of nerd solidarity.”

Spike slumped. “So no news on Joyce then? Buffy’s mum?”

Angel’s countenance cleared. “Last I heard, it seemed like the operation had been successful,” he said. “They think they got the whole tumor, and Joyce seems to be on the mend, though she is still quite weak.”

Spike felt a weight lift from his heart. At least one kind soul had got a reprieve. “So, did Willow the Witch come up with anything?”

“Nothing definite, but she had quite a few theories,” Wesley said, becoming animated. “It’s still a bit of a mystery why vampires don’t have a reflection in the first place. There’s one school of thought that says that reflective surfaces demand a high degree of truth. You know those times when you think you look fine, but the mirror shows you a big spot on the end of your nose? Or you’re convinced you’ve got washboard abs but somehow the mirror never manages to reflect their true glory?”

Spike shot a smug grin at Riley, who returned it, having apparently read his mind.

Wesley cleared his throat.

“Just me then, perhaps. Well, anyway,” he went on: “It’s possible that the mirror somehow knows that vampires – being dead if you’ll pardon me for being so blunt – shouldn’t be walking around, and so it refuses to acknowledge their existence. That being the case, there might be a spell to remove a mirror’s capacity for scepticism – make it suspend disbelief. Such ‘credulous glass’ might also show things like ghosts, though we haven’t tested this theory. Cordelia wouldn’t let us try it out on Dennis, in case it upset him.”

Wesley shook his head at Cordelia’s sad lack of scientific curiosity.

“Another suggestion – which is a rather similar – is that mirrors refrain from reflecting vampires, to make it more difficult for them to pass as human, and that rather than being magic, this mirror just happens to be one with no public spirit.”

Wesley poured himself a drink to lubricate his vocal chords.

“But the idea I tend to favour – and a good … er … friend of Willow’s came up with this one – is that vampires, having passed through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, are just different enough, on a molecular level, that rather than being reflected, their image is refracted into another dimension. They may even appear there, as ghosts themselves.”

“I don’t much like the sound of that,” Spike said. “Had enough dimensional jiggery-pokery for a good while. Me and my reflection would prefer to stay put, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Well, if we accept the theory, this particular glass appears to have been magically calibrated to detect vampires. So now your reflection will be quite safe!” Wesley announced, as though he’d accomplished it himself. “Excellent!”

His exclamation woke Harmony from the coma into which she’d lapsed during the rambling exposition.

“Can I have a look?” she pleaded. “Angel wouldn’t let me!”

“No! Angel gave it to _me_!” Spike said, clutching the mirror to his chest. “It’s my birthday present!”

Only when the comical expression of disappointment on her face nearly turned to tears, did he fold.

“Alright then. Look after it for me, till we leave,” he said, handing it over with a show of benevolence. “And don’t break it, or I’ll get you at playtime.”

“I’ll be very careful,” she promised meekly.

“Well, that’s all very interesting,” Spike said as he helped himself to the last of Riley’s drink. “But I think we’ve spent enough time sitting in the kitchen like a bunch of sad gits. Let’s show our public spirit and mingle. See if we can’t help Angel with his fund-raising.”

He took Riley’s hand and led him out into the main room, and Harmony wandered along with them, taking Riley’s other arm.

Riley glanced uncertainly at Spike.

“Oi!” Spike said, glowering at Harmony. “You’re not borrowing him an’ all!”

“Don’t be such a grumpy bear,” she cajoled. “I wanted to talk to you guys.”

“What about?” Spike said.

“Well, Spike, you know how we once talked about … stuff …” She batted her eyelashes.

“No! Harm!”

“What?” she said, all wide-eyed innocence.

“I _know_ what you’re gonna say, and the answer’s – ‘no’.”

“But Spikey …” she wheedled.

“Drop it, Harm!”

“But you said three doesn’t always have to be a –”

_ **“No!”** _

Harmony shrugged. “Your loss,” she said, regretfully loosing her hold on Riley, and taking her leave of them with as much dignity as she could muster.

Riley pulled Spike towards him, and whispered, “Was she suggesting what I think she was suggesting?”

“Not telling you,” Spike said, setting his jaw.

As Riley watched the provocative swaying of Harmony’s retreating butt, he said mildly, “We might live forever – and forever’s a long time Spike …”

Spike’s mouth dropped open. He hadn’t reckoned Riley’d be up for anything so adventurous. Wasn’t even sure he’d be up for it himself.

“Well, I didn’t say ‘never’ …” Spike said pensively. “Oi! Harm!” he called out. “Ask again in fifty years, and we might consider it.”

She turned back and smiled shyly. “I won’t forget!”

~~

When the others had returned to the party, Wesley turned to Angel. “Am I to assume you’re now quite confident about letting Spike loose on the world?”

Angel sighed. “I don’t know Wes. I kind-of figure that maybe it’s not my place any more, to decide whether he’s safe or not. I don’t know that he’s any more dangerous than some of the people you meet any day on the street. And this relationship with Riley has given him a powerful incentive to stay clean.” He felt the fading bruises on his face, somewhat gingerly. “I’m hoping it will help him stay focused.”

“Indeed. And they make quite a charming couple, don’t you think?” Wesley said.

It came out a tad more wistfully than he’d intended.

Angel looked at his hands where they lay clasped on the table. “You know, Wesley, I really value all the work you do for me. For Angel Investigations. We’d be lost without you. I’d be …”

Wesley’s heart kicked up, as he briefly allowed himself to hope.

“But –”

Oh. As always, there was a ‘but.’ “Please, you don’t have to …”

Wesley went to fill the kettle. It was a conditioned reflex – feeling upset seemed inevitably to lead to making tea. But there must have been an airlock in the pipes, because the water spurted everywhere, and splashed down the front of his trousers.

“Damn and blast!”

It was hardly surprising if Angel wouldn’t even consider a clumsy fool like him as a mate. Depressed by his own incompetence, Wesley was hit by the sudden certainty that – just like his counterpart in the other reality – he was about to be fired; that the dreadful event had not been averted: just delayed.

“I _know_, Wes,” Angel said, standing up, taking the kettle away from him, and placing it on the counter.

Angel was only a foot – maybe inches – away, and Wesley, the sink at his back, had nowhere to retreat to; nowhere to go and escape from that searching gaze: painfully sincere.

“I’ve got my head out of my ass,” Angel said. “I know how it is. How you feel.”

A horrible awareness came over Wesley: of his own heartbeat; of the fact that he was sweating, and giving off God knows what other signals he couldn’t control. It was true. Angel probably knew more about how he was feeling than he did himself.

“And I appreciate that … well it must be hard for anyone working with a vampire. There are so many things you can’t keep to yourself.”

Wesley didn’t trust himself to speak, even if he could have thought of something to say; but Angel seemed to be unusually talkative, so there was no need. He was spared that, at least.

“I just wanted to say … I don’t want this to be awkward. For you. And it will be, for a while. But please … tough it out. Don’t leave. I need you. If you hadn’t warned me … hadn’t come along and interrupted me and Darla when you did …”

‘… at least one of us would have got what we needed …’ Wesley thought bitterly.

“But now I know – and you know that I know – I hope it will be easier on you. I’ve lived a long time, and seen and done a lot of things, and there’s nothing you can do, or say, or leave unsaid, that’s going to make me think less of you.”

Angel poured Wesley a drink and passed it to him, and Wesley drank it down.

“But … I’m not the one for you. I think you know that.”

Wesley desperately wanted to protest, that yes, he could be the one, just please, give it a chance. But he didn’t, and his miserable silence left room for Angel to back his statement up with reasoning.

“I’m two hundred years older than you, and it feels like more. And on top of that, I’m your boss. It wouldn’t be right – wouldn’t be fair on either of us. The inequalities …”

The only argument Wesley could have given him was neither sufficient, nor something he could possibly have said: especially not now.

“I’m not the one. Though when you find the one who is …”

Wesley heaved a deep sigh and placed a hand on Angel’s chest: a gentle reminder that, as they weren’t – and probably never would be – lovers, some personal space would be appreciated.

Angel backed up and walked around the table, and went on, gesturing speculatively.

“And who knows. One day, maybe twenty or thirty years from now, when you’re happily married, with kids in college … or whatever … and I’m still here at the Hyperion, brooding, all alone in the dark, you’ll invite me over and we’ll sit on your porch and have a few drinks and look back on this, and you’ll wonder what you ever saw in me. We might even have a laugh about it.”

“Yes,” Wesley said. “Yes, I suppose we might …”

It was a comforting thought. Not that Angel would still be alone – that was almost unbearably sad – but that Angel thought they might still be friends, in twenty, thirty years from now.

Knowing that, Wesley was almost sure that he could bear it.

~~

Spike propped the mirror up on the dressing table. He hadn’t made a big show of looking into it when Angel had given it to him; but now, he stared in fascination at his reflection, turning his head this way and that; trying to cover every angle. In a way, he was surprised not to see his old self – William Bennett – looking back at him, like the last time he’d seen his own reflection. But what he saw – the look he’d chosen – didn’t displease him.

“Never have smudged eyeliner again,” he said.

Riley came up behind him and wrapped his arms around him. Riley’s cheek was pressed against his, so that they were framed side by side.

“Didn’t realize how hot we look together,” Spike said thoughtfully. “No wonder we get girls’ knickers wet.”

“Please, stop!” Riley begged him.

Spike smiled.

Experimentally, he vamped out, and then changed back. He’d seen his vamp-face in photographs, many years ago, but he’d forgotten how different it was; how alien. Yet Riley Finn could look on this face – this fanged and distorted mask – and call it ‘beautiful.’ He could scarcely believe it, though he’d once thought the same about Drusilla’s true face.

Half to himself, he murmured, “Dru would have loved this.”

“What do you think will happen to her?” Riley asked him.

He sounded genuinely concerned, but the question seemed odd, to say the least.

“How d’you mean?”

“Will she be okay? I mean, she didn’t seem that … competent.” Riley ducked his head, inviting confidences. “Do you worry about her?”

Spike smiled softly and palmed Riley’s cheek. “Not as much as you do, by the sound of it. I used to, in the old days. Not any more though. She may seem like a little lost girl sometimes – and sometimes she is. But little girls – even lost ones – are can be tougher than they look. She’s older and wilier than I am Riley. Sure, she’ll be okay. She’ll wander about, mope a bit, kill a few people, shag a few demons. Possibly the other way round, an’ all. She’ll probably hook up with Darla again ... World’s smaller than you might think. You always bump into people …”

Riley nuzzled into his neck. “But you miss her don’t you?”

Spike closed his eyes and breathed a sigh.

“I’d put her out of my mind – almost forgotten – till I came back here. I just wish … I wish she could be happy. But you’ve seen her. She’s insane. Kind of stuff that makes her happy … well, I don’t know if she ever really is. Like I said. Insane. Not her fault. But I couldn’t think of going back to that … that life – with her. Not now.” Spike’s voice went quiet. “Even if you left me …”

“Never happen,” Riley said swiftly. He swung away in frustration. “God! Why can’t everything just be … okay for everyone?” He turned back and took Spike by the shoulders, looking him in the eyes. “But you can, right? Be happy? With me? Always?”

Spike looked back at him unflinching. “I’m sure of it, Riley. You’re the One. Dru, Angelus – they chose me. I never really had any say in the matter, and even then, I was always second or third in line. But you and me? We chose each other. ’s gonna work out for us, I know it is.”

He kissed Riley on the mouth – reassurance offered and accepted in the firm press of lips – and when he pulled away, Riley tugged him back into his arms for more of it.

When at last, they broke off, Spike said: “So, what d’you think?”

Riley looked a little dazed. “When you kiss me, I know I have to be the luckiest guy in the world.”

Spike shook his head: amused, but glowing nevertheless; Riley was always so free with his compliments.

“Not about that, love,” he said gently, rubbing Riley’s cheek with his thumb. “About Angel’s big idea. Both of us working for AI, in the winter.”

Riley’s mouth quirked down at the corners. “I don’t know Spike.” He rubbed a hand over his chin. “There’s things about him I can’t stomach –”

“Join the club!” Spike interjected.

“But I think he’s on our side now – finally. I oughta give him credit for finding someone to get the chip out, even if it was Angleman. And there’s no way I could have gotten you out of that place without his help.”

Riley paused, weighing things up.

“We worked pretty smoothly together. And he seems to be doing good things here from what Wes has told me. So I guess if my Dad can spare me … I definitely have skills AI can use, and at least we’d be together. Be able to watch each other’s backs.” He turned away a little. “And I can’t ask you not to see him, I know that now. It’d be like me not seeing my Mom ever again.”

“Hey!”

“Well, I don’t know how to describe what you and Angel have. Your … thing. I just know I feel like I’m second-best whenever he’s in the room.” He dropped his gaze. “I think that’s why I did what I did – before. Lost control.”

“You’re never second best,” Spike said. He kissed him again.

When they broke for air, Spike said softly, “Just so you know, it’s not all one way. Green-eyed monster still gets to me too – all the time. Try not to let it, but I can’t help it.”

“Truly?” Riley asked breathlessly. “Who do you have to be jealous of?” He paused, considering. “Surely not Wesley?”

Spike shook his head.

“Todd, I know …” Riley tried again. “But I thought you guys were buddies now – thought you were over that.”

“I am. We are buddies. It’s not Todd.”

“Who then?”

“’s gonna sound daft.” Spike avoided Riley’s gaze.

“Tell me,” Riley insisted.

He tipped Spike’s chin back, but Spike – embarrassed beyond measure – still looked away. “You’ll laugh at me.”

“I promise I won’t laugh.” Riley let go of him, stepped back, crossed his heart then snapped a Boy Scout salute.

Finally, still unable to look Riley in the face, Spike confessed, “Of … your horses.”

~~

_“My horses?!”_ Riley spluttered, almost breaking his promise straight off, and accidentally treading on Spike’s foot.

“Ow!”

“God, I’m sorry, I just … my horses, Spike?”

“And your dog,” Spike said quickly, wincing at the admission.

Riley tried to school his features because he feared they were portraying a mixture of confusion, horror and – yes – amusement.

“Why, in God’s name would you be jealous of a dog and a few horses? I don’t make out with …” He shook his head. “Why am I even saying that?”

Holding Spike’s face between his hands, he said – as sincerely as he was able – “Spike, I love you more than Jess, and more than my horses, all of ’em put together, honest to God. You gotta know that.”

“I know.” Spike sighed, shame-faced. “Told you it was daft.”

But Riley wasn’t about to dismiss Spike’s concerns, however crazy they might sound. Worried, he said, “You want me to stop seeing …”

He wiped a hand over his mouth. “Now that just sounds wrong. What I mean is – should I get someone else on the farm to take care of them? Or … or even find new homes for ’em?”

He sat down on the bed, awaiting the verdict, and silently praying Spike would say ‘no’, because either way, it would be like losing a limb. “I could … if you really want me too.”

“Don’t you dare!” Spike said firmly. “What? Consign your pets to the outer darkness just ’cos I’m a bloody idiot? No, Mate. I _know_ it’s fuckin’ stupid, okay? It’s just that –”

Spike swatted at the air.

“Sometimes, when you go riding, or when you’re playing with Jess outside in the yard, I just … I just feel left out, I guess. Then I get all twisted up inside, because I must be a right selfish cunt to want to keep you hanging around in darkened rooms, when you belong out there, where life’s happening. You deserve better than that … better than –”

“Please, don’t say that. Don’t even think it.”

“And the way you are around them. The way you touch them – so comfortable. Like you own them. I mean, I know you do own them, but –” Spike’s voice dropped. “You used to be like that with me.”

Spike rubbed his eyes and sat down on the bed, beside him. “I want that back.”

Riley felt a lump rising in his throat.

“Had this dream once,” Spike continued. “We were doing it … makin’ love out in the fields. It was just so …” He looked away.

“Well, we can do that,” Riley said. “Not in the daylight, but we can go out at night and … fool around …”

He rubbed Spike’s temple with his knuckles. “Summer nights, when it’s warm out. I know a place we could go.”

He looked at Spike with concern. The guy really threw him for a loop sometimes. “I can’t believe you! Next you’ll be saying you’re jealous of the cornfields because I fertilise them.”

He was laughing when he said it, but Spike didn’t take it as a joke.

Instead, Spike took his hand and planted a kiss on his wrist. Very correct; very English all of a sudden – like when they first met, he said, “I would never tell you that.” Looking up at him from under his lashes, he went on: “Just like I’d never tell you that I’m jealous of the sun because it kisses your face every morning …”

Spike’s lips were on his; Spike’s hands sliding under his tee-shirt. Spike looked at him with a question in his eyes, then pulled the garment over his head, and combed lazy fingers through his hair, where he’d disturbed it.

“I’d be ashamed to reveal how much I envy the wind when it ruffles your hair, blowing these golden filaments awry. No real man says that stuff.”

Riley listened: wide-eyed, and a little hypnotised.

“I’d never admit to the grudge that I bear against the land – the State of Iowa – because your feet are caressing it all day long, as you do your chores …”

Spike knelt on the floor and began removing Riley’s boots and socks, from the left foot, then the right.

“Oh God –” Riley had to fight for breath at seeing Spike’s back bent before him.

“… that I envy the soil, taking _my_ place, where I belong – crushed under the heel of your boot.”

“Don’t say that –”

Spike’s lips were cool against his instep; even the soles of his feet – Spike was kissing his feet. Wasn’t that against the Constitution?

“No …” Riley moaned softly: “Oh no, don’t …” though he could make no move to prevent him. He was glad he was sitting down, because his knees would have given way.

Spike looked up at him with desperate hunger, and went to work on his jeans, pulling the belt free, and nearly ripping the zip as his urgency grew; his voice, deep and dirty and full of promise.

“I’m not the least bit jealous of the gear-stick of your truck, when your hand just gives it the briefest caress – yes, I’ve seen you do it – before you slip it in, so smooth and sure …”

Spike dragged Riley’s jeans off and flung them away. Then Spike was kneeling between his thighs, sliding his middle finger into Riley’s mouth, and working it around, as he said through gritted teeth: “It’s a closely guarded secret, that I’m jealous of the water, when you take a shower, because it gets in all the nooks and crannies I can’t get into. Couldn’t say that, it’s just crude.”

“Crude can be good,” Riley said breathlessly.

He put one foot up on the bed, so that Spike could do whatever he wanted, and Spike used him without mercy: teasing his hole, then thrusting a finger – the finger that had been in his mouth – thrusting it into him, sending his core into meltdown, making him moan.

But then Spike took it away, and he had to take small breaths to get control as Spike stroked softly behind his sac, and murmured into his ear, so close that Riley could feel the breath.

“I know it’s perverse –” “Perverse can be okay,” Riley said vaguely, his eyes glazing with lust.

“– but I’m insanely jealous of the air in your lungs, and the blood in your veins, keeping you alive. They do something I can never do for you.”

Spike was curling round him like smoke: his low patter of foolish words and phrases that meant nothing and everything, penetrating every pore – touching him – turning him on just as surely as if they had form and substance, and just when Riley was sure he could drill concrete with his dick, Spike took hold of it, and rubbed the bridge of his nose against the shaft.  
Riley caught his breath. The head of his prick was grazing Spike’s brow and lashes, nudging into the hollows around Spike’s eye, and against the soft resistance of his eyelid – God, it was too much – and even with Spike holding him back, it nearly blew his top. He loosed a harsh cry and willed himself not to come, and Spike moaned, close to spilling as well.

Spike held still for a moment, breathing heavily.

Riley closed his eyes, just holding on; then his restrained cock was in Spike’s mouth, being mauled with tongue and teeth. He whimpered helplessly.

Slowly, Spike dragged his lips up Riley’s length; let it slip out.

“I’d never tell you any of that …”

He mouthed the tip with soft lips, looking up at Riley, abashed – almost fearful – as he murmured: “Because if you knew how much I need you, want you, you’d get on that big horse of yours, and gallop away as fast as you could.”

“You’re forgetting something,” Riley gasped, holding up his left hand: the one with Spike’s ring on it. “There’s nothing about you I don’t know.”

Spike took a deep breath. “Lucky for me then. I don’t have to say a word. You won’t make me confess – tell you what I need. You won’t make me beg for it, you wouldn’t do that to me …”

And Riley came crashing to earth. He bit his lip.

“Oh. Yeah … I … I don’t know Spike …”

“But …”

Spike didn’t say, ‘You promised.’ He didn’t have to.

Riley felt Spike’s grip on him slacken, and suddenly that wasn’t a problem any more. Spike’s face – blank with disappointment – would have been enough to make him feel sick inside, even if he didn’t have a hotline to Spike’s heart.

“I know. I promised. And I’m trying, really. But are you sure you’re ready? After everything …”

He was clutching at straws; Spike’s need was like a tiger, fretting against its chains in the corner of the room.

“You _know_ I am,” Spike choked out, his face wild and desperate. “Riley, _**please**_ … You gotta stop treating me like I’m made out of sugar. I need you to … need you to stop it. Show me some respect. I’m a vampire – a monster – not a bloody china doll.”

Spike glanced regretfully at Riley’s softening cock and Riley covered himself with his hands.

“Not sayin’ _that_ isn’t a monster, but it doesn’t scare me any.”

The bitterness in Spike’s voice chilled Riley to the core.

“It’s me,” Riley said. “I’m the one who’s afraid … of how I felt – when … that time …” He dropped his gaze. “I’m scared of myself. What I might do. And you’re right. I _am_ jealous, even now,” he confessed. “I’m jealous of Angel.”

There.

He’d said it again.

Maybe if he said it often enough it would lose its power over him.

“I’m trying to fight it. I hate feeling like this. I want to be a big man about it, but it’s hard. And if I let myself remember that you …” He swallowed, hard. “That he …”

He looked up, willing Spike to understand. “I’m scared I might lose it again. I don’t wanna be the bad guy, Spike.”

“You’re not the bad guy.” Spike’s voice was low and determined; his eyes were blue flints. “You’re not even close to being the bad guy. I’ve seen the bad guy, and had to deal with the bad guy, and yeah, I’ve been him too. You’re not him. That thing you did to me – the thing you’re flogging your conscience over – that was _nothing_ to some of the things I’ve done to others, and had done to me. And you bein’ like this – it’s confusing. It’s makin’ me feel … I don’t know …”

Spike shook his head as though an insect was buzzing in his ear.

“Weird. Like I’m supposed to feel guilty about stuff _I_ did before I met you, before I changed. That’s Angel’s gig, not mine, and it’s a waste of time. Doesn’t make any of it better. Don’t make me be that way.”

He’d been making Spike feel guilty? Riley took this in with a feeling of utter bewilderment. It was crazy: so crazy that even with the ring, he’d missed it.

Spike had got up and started pacing and gesticulating. “You want me to tell you that you did a bad thing? Okay, you did. Yeah, you were rough with me, rougher than I like. Made me bleed. But if you want to know where that came on a badness scale of one to ten? I’d give it a three.”

Riley blinked, shocked at what Spike said, but even more by the casual way he’d said it.

“And you know what?” Spike went on. “If you can’t help it – if you lose it a little bit sometimes, or even if you _want_ to do me like that, even if it’s every time? I’ll take it ...” Spike’s voice quavered. “So long as you love me, I’ll take it, rough like that. Because it’s better than not having you at all.”

As he watched Spike rummage around in the nightstand drawer and – with shaking hands – find, and light, a cigarette, Riley felt so much love welling up in his chest it almost choked him. He couldn’t have got a word out at that moment if his life depended on it.

“Know what really hurt? Knowing that you thought I was trash. And that wasn’t the real you – I know it wasn’t. I know it. So you can either stay on your pedestal of self-flagellation, taking me along on your little guilt-trip, or you can do us both a favour. Get down, and give it another go.”

Riley swallowed again, but the lump in his throat wouldn’t go away.

“You got no cause to worry anyway. I can defend myself now, don’t forget.” Spike pointed the cigarette at Riley. “I wouldn’t. Wouldn’t ever fight you. But I could.”

“But if I went so far that I pushed you into that –” Riley pleaded, finally finding his voice. “If you had to stop me by force – I don’t know if I could ever look at myself in the mirror, or even trust myself to be with you again.” He ducked his head apologetically. “And you might not even want me to if I had a big scraggly beard.”

Spike made ‘huh?’ face.

“Can’t shave without looking in a mirror,” Riley explained lamely.

Spike snorted, and sat down on the bed, with his head lowered almost between his knees. After a moment he looked up and spoke again, more kindly.

“I love all the other stuff. Teasing, foreplay, sucking each other off. Can do it all night, you know that. But we have to get over this.” He chewed on his thumbnail and muttered, “You’ve not been the same since Cleveland. Since you saw … what you saw. _Me_, like _that_. Feel like you must think I’m …” Spike’s head dropped again: “… spoiled or something … down there ...”

“No!”

Riley dropped to his knees in front of Spike, looking up into his face. “I told you before, that’s not it. You’re not … never! God, Spike. It’s me. I’m just so fucked up –”

“I know you still want me,” Spike cut in. “In my head, I know it. I just … don’t feel it.”

Riley stroked Spike’s forearm tentatively. “Oh, I want you. Want you too much.” He sighed deeply. “I had good intentions. Should get points for that, right?”

He got up and went to his coat where it lay on a chair, and pulled a bottle out of the pocket. “See? I didn’t plan to freak out like this.”

“No, I know you didn’t, Mate. Me neither.” Spike shook his head at himself and gestured at Riley to pass him the bottle.

Spike scanned the label. “‘Fun Flavoured Heating Lotion. Take your partner to the heights of ecstasy and beyond.’ You always do that …” A smile played across his lips. “‘Passion Fruit.’ Adventurous – for you ...” he said.

The teasing was feeble, but it was better than the desperation that had been coming off Spike in waves a few minutes before.

And suddenly, Riley didn’t know why he was making such a drama out of it. Anything Spike had done with Angel; anything Angel had done to – or with – Spike: none of it mattered a damn, when he saw Spike’s face: tight with anticipation but so beautiful: waiting on his word. If anyone had a right to make a big scene, it was Spike. But Spike was still here with him; had forgiven him, and always would; he’d said so.

What in God’s name was there to hold him back?

Riley shrugged. “Well, what kind of man would I be if I was too chicken to go into ‘The Pleasure Chest’ and buy a bottle of sensual, lubricating massage-oil if I want?”

Spike hooded his eyes. “What kind of man would be brave enough to buy it, and too chicken to use it?” he said, quickly stripping off, and crawling onto the bed. “Come on. We had an appointment, remember? Doesn’t do for the masseur to let his client get a chill.”

~~

When he felt Riley’s weight bear down on his thighs, Spike gave a grunt of satisfaction. The massage lotion was cold as Riley trickled it down his spine, but warmed as soon as Riley started working it into his shoulders, loosening the tension in his neck; even rubbing it up into his hair as Riley massaged his scalp.

A rumble of pleasure rose in Spike’s throat; but the fragrance was soon overpowering. “I’m gonna smell like a Turkish knocking shop,” he groused.

“A Turkish what?” Riley said, mystified.

Spike groaned, amused and exasperated in equal measure. “Sometimes just opening my mouth makes me feel like I’m from another planet.”

“I’ll bet it’s one of those quirky British innuendo things isn’t it?” Riley said, pressing him into the mattress. “You know, it’s not fair to make fun of me, just because I’m an ignorant American.”

Spike felt Riley running both thumbs firmly down his spine, from his neck right down to the tailbone: first together, then one following the other so that the sensation kept rolling through, like waves on a shore.

He squirmed luxuriously.

Riley was relaxing, humming soothingly to himself: probably didn’t even know he was doing it. Having something to do with his hands was distracting him, as Spike had hoped it would.

As he was stroked and pampered, he imagined himself Riley’s horse: not the big lanky grey, but the little compact chestnut job that could turn on a sixpence: the one Riley said was a quarter-horse.

‘So, what are the other three-quarters?’ he’d asked Riley innocently. ‘Duck-billed platypus? Racing pigeon, perhaps? Kipper?’ And Riley had laughed and said, ‘Stop messin’ with me! I know a kipper isn’t a proper animal!’ – and had cuffed the back of his head.

Spike smiled into the pillow, thinking what it would be like – how fine it would be – to stand out in the yard, having his hide buffed and polished by one who owned him; loved him – until it shone in the sunlight. Arching and stretching, he thrust his dick impatiently against the sheets as Riley worked his way up and down his spine. No wonder Riley’s horses loved him; would do anything for him; jump the gates of Hell for him, if he asked it of them.

Riley shifted around, still sitting astride him, but facing away from his head. He leaned and reached and started rubbing Spike’s feet. It tickled, and at first Spike just bore it stoically, but when it stopped, he could hardly stand it. As Riley turned his attention to his calves and pressed behind his knees, he felt Riley’s cock, hard once more, sliding the wrong way along his cleft, and he shifted, raising his hips a little to feel more of it.

At last, Riley reached the insides of his thighs, thumbs kneading, and pressing in, and he dared spread himself in invitation: hope and fear and desire stripping away just a bit more of the little pride he had left. His eyes were prickling.

In answer to his silent prayer, a hand slid higher, and – as if by accident – Riley eased a slick finger inside him. Riley’s nervous exhalation told Spike how hard this was for him, so he just rasped gratefully, “Ye-ah ... more of that, Mate.”

“Sure?” Riley said, half-kidding, half-uncertain himself.

Riley’s breathing was still anxious – stuttering – so when Spike felt the finger withdrawn, he choked down the sob that bubbled up in his chest, and made no protest. He’d been piling on the pressure: way too much pressure; couldn’t help himself; and now, though he ached so badly to feel it inside him – that gorgeous cock that was slapping teasingly against him – he was determined not to do, or say anything to spook his man.

But his skin was on fire with borrowed heat, and when Riley sawed the edge of his hand between his buttocks, grazing his hole, he spread himself wider, wriggling and pressing back onto it, murmuring, “Please, Riley ... oh, God, please ...”

He pushed up onto his knees – couldn’t help it – and Riley, forced to dismount, shuffled round behind him, and grunted appreciatively. Riley usually liked to see his face, but on this occasion it seemed that what he saw – Spike, on his knees, open for him, straining towards him – pleased him very greatly.

Not spoiled then. Not that.

Making approving noises in his throat, Riley carried on massaging the lotion into his arse.

Spike shuddered.

Must look a right little whore: presenting himself like this.

The image tore a desperate moan from his chest, but he arched his back, offering more, and Riley took full advantage: weighing his balls in his palm, rolling and caressing and – oh fuck – kissing and mouthing them, and taking his own sweet time about it, before reaching underneath to take his cock in hand, frustrating it with slight pressure.

As Spike thrust into that teasing hand, Riley breeched him again – two fingers this time, crooked to hit the spot – and he heard the wordless sounds of his own need amplified in his head, and bowed his head in shame and pressed back.

And Riley was petting his flank; his thighs. “Shhh. It’s okay, I’ll get there,” he said a little breathlessly. “I will.”

He slid a warm hand along Spike’s cock, almost up to the head, then tantalizingly removed it.

A strangled whimper – the only sound Spike could make – must have been something Riley wanted to hear, because he did it again, over and over again, without mercy, until Spike was grunting with the effort – to come or not to, even he didn’t know which – then finally rolled the head in his hand.

Fuck.

“Hold … hold off love,” Spike gasped. “Gonna be over before –” but he couldn’t resist dropping his head and watching Riley’s hand on his cock and he jerked helplessly into that hand and whined.

“Doesn’t matter,” Riley said, reassuring. “We don’t have any place to go.”

But it did matter. Suddenly, it felt as though there was just one chance to get things right. He willed himself not to come: even as Riley parted him, blowing warm breath over him; even as it felt like Riley must have three hands; as he rhythmically stroked half-circles around Spike’s entrance, making him shake and dragging high ragged cries from him; as he cupped and squeezed Spike’s balls; as Riley’s palms, and then with slow deliberation, fingers and thumbs spread him wider still, making his deprivation the greater – Oh! – even as he became a hot gaping void, starving for something, anything; then he was almost begging.

“Riley, please … fuck … God, oh, God … please, fuck –”

He fell silent; couldn’t say, ‘please fuck me’ – just couldn’t; because if the answer this time was ‘no’ …

And then nothing – no words; no hands; no reassurance – and it seemed like forever he was left untouched, and utterly exposed; suspended in nothingness: the only sounds, the degrading, pleading whines and whimpers issuing from his own throat as he strained for anything that might let him hope.

Was a bottle being opened? Was Riley preparing himself?

Oh … yes.

Firm hands parted him – yes – and Riley covered and penetrated him, sliding home, hot and slick and vital, and he groaned, clenched around him and came in great juddering spurts, crying out the relief that flooded through him until his throat was raw; his muscles straining to stop himself collapsing.

“Bloody hell,” he said quietly, when he was finished: distressed to have come so soon, and Riley still hard and unsatisfied inside him. “Sorry …”

But Riley gentled him, holding him close; he rolled so that they were lying spooned on their sides, and brushed the hair off Spike’s brow, making soothing sounds until he’d stopped shaking. Then Riley rocked into him, taking him slowly, patiently, holding off and holding off, moving just enough to hit that spot over and over until Spike was hard once more, and only then did he take his own pleasure from him, and give Spike his again.

When Riley slid out, Spike lay exhausted, with his arms over his face.

Riley touched him tentatively. “Are you … was it okay?”

Spike almost laughed; almost choked. “Yes, God, yes, it was okay … more than okay.”

He felt weak; confessional.

“I’m such an idiot … makin’ all that fuss. Should have known … but I thought … dunno. Was scared, I guess. I know it’s not been that long … a few days. But I didn’t think … half-believed we were never gonna do it – this – again. Couldn’t bear it. But I couldn’t have blamed you if I’d scared you off with all this carryin’ on.” He shook his head. “Tried … doin’ myself … with –”

“Not that stake!” Riley said, dismayed.

“Bloody hell, no! But with … other stuff. Candle. Bottles of …” Fucking shut up, Spike; stop embarrassing yourself. “You don’t need to know. It’s not the same. Takes away the element of surprise you know?” He bit his lower lip ruefully. “Half the time I know what I’m gonna do next …”

“God, Spike I’m so sorry.” Riley pulled Spike back into his arms, and put his chin on Spike’s shoulder. “Only half the time?”

“Pretty unpredictable, huh?” Spike made a noise that was part-laugh, part-sob. He felt sore and vulnerable; feared he was about to cry for real: just cry his sodding eyes out.

Which was stupid.

Everything was going to be okay now.

Maybe that was why.

The chip was out, he’d got his man back, and soon – very soon – they could pack up and get on the road: just the two of them.

He could hardly wait.

He turned around and clung to Riley, buried his head in the crook of the big man’s neck, and said quietly, “Is it home time yet?”

~~


	13. Leave-taking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The time has come for Spike and Riley to set off for home.

**Sunday 4th February**

Whoever had given Harmony her name, prediction had been one of their weaker points. Harmony couldn’t sing for toffee apples. Sadly, that didn’t stop her from warbling a tuneless accompaniment to an almost equally untalented boy-band, playing on her tinny CD player.

Never one to let an opportunity go to waste, Spike thought he’d try and sneak past the open door to her room without being noticed, using the cacophony – now that would have been a better name for her – as cover.

As plans went, it was tactically sound, but – like most of his plans – it didn’t survive contact with the enemy: mainly on account of she’d been lying in wait for him all along.

“Hey, Blondie Bear!” – came the shrill, imperious summons – “Get in here!”

Wincing at the extreme pinkness of Harmony’s room, and fervently hoping she hadn’t just ambushed him in order to make more improper suggestions of a tripartite nature, he obeyed.

Harmony looked innocent enough. She was just sitting on her bed, poking around amongst the contents of her trinket box.

“What is it, Harm?”

“Oh … nothing much …”

That was rather evasive to his way of thinking.

“… I just wondered when you were leaving.”

“Can’t wait to see the back of me, eh?” Spike quipped.

“Your ass, anyway!” she said. “And you know that’s not true.”

She didn’t even look up from what she was doing; in fact, she sounded genuinely subdued.

“Yeah, well … should be tonight we set off back to the farm.”

Spike glanced with mild curiosity over Harmony’s shoulder, at her collection of gewgaws. Tacky costume jewellery, most of it: bird shapes glittering with coloured glass; a marcasite tiger; a red enamel horse; a silver unicorn. Probably fetch the price of a couple of pints if you pawned the lot of it.

Except …

“Hey Harm,” he said, trying to study a particular item without her noticing. “Where’s Gen?”

“We’re not roomies, or joined at the hip or anything,” Harmony grumbled. “We’re our own person. Persons. People. Whatever.”

It couldn’t be … could it?

“Anyway, if you want to know,” Harmony went on: “I do happen – by pure coincidence – to have some information. She said she’d be in the office designing flyers for a talk she’s giving at the shelter, then she has an appointment with …”

… Yes, he was almost sure.

Harmony prattled on, but Spike wasn’t listening at all. His throat felt suddenly tight. He’d be willing to swear it was identical to the one he’d lost to Angel; it looked the same age, same colour; everything. If it wasn’t the Gem of Amara – and it couldn’t be, because Angel had smashed that Unholy Grail – it was a damn good copy.

Maybe another one had slipped through from the other timeline?

More likely, Angel had lied about destroying it.

But then he’d hardly have left something so valuable – potentially so dangerous – in Harmony’s dubious safe-keeping, would he? Besides, so far as Spike had noticed, Harmony never ventured out in daylight, any more than Angel did.

Still, she’d only worn the one they found in Sunnydale for a few seconds. It was just possible that somehow, it _was_ the real thing, and that she didn’t even know what she had.

Harmony was still burbling, as she arranged the jewelled and glittering creatures from her box into fantastic tableaux, where peacocks and butterflies enjoyed the company of mythical beasts and dangerous predators, unmolested. Bless her little cotton brain.

… The Gem of Amara …

It would be easy to distract the witless bird; swipe the Gem. Or just come along later and lift it while she wasn’t there. Hell, in her ignorance, she’d probably give it to him if he asked her for it, and never so much as miss it.

No harm, no foul, eh?

He’d found it first, after all. Done the research; got the team together; even got his hands dirty. It was his by rights.

Hold on, Spike: you’re starting to sound like Gollum.

Wondering whether he’d said that out loud, Spike noticed that Harmony had run out of steam and was looking up at him expectantly.

As he hadn’t heard a blind word she’d said after ‘flyers’, he bluffed, “So it all ended happily ever after, then?”

“I guess.” She heaved a sigh that made her pale bosom rise and fall in a most fetching manner.

“So you and Riley will be leaving soon,” she said. She twiddled a strand of hair around one finger. “I was trying to find something to give you – like a keepsake. But I couldn’t see anything macho enough.”

Holy fuck!

Spike’s mouth was dry as he pointed to the ring. “That’s not too feminine,” he said weakly. “Is it … anything special?”

“Oh, I just found it with some other stuff in a crypt,” she said blithely. “I never wear it.”

Spike swallowed, and passed a hand across his brow.

There were a thousand reasons why he needed the Gem of Amara more than Harmony. Almost every day, Riley had to go where _he_ couldn’t follow.

He trusted Riley; he did. But that wasn’t the problem. It was when he’d lain awake into the small hours, torturing himself with visions of Riley being crushed by a combine, or hit by a truck, or suffering some other fatal injury under the blazing sun, while he – Spike – watched from the shadows, powerless to save him: that was when he was most sorely tempted to try and stop Riley from getting out of bed in the morning to do his chores.

But if _he_ could go outside whenever he wanted – out in the sunshine, _with Riley … _

The very thought made his heart hurt.

Sod getting a tan; to walk in the cornfields with him, maybe even work alongside him … or watch him working anyway … Was that too much to ask? To see the sunlight glisten on the beads of sweat trickling down between Riley’s shoulders, while he fucked him into the clover …

Spike looked away for a moment, setting his jaw, and inwardly cursing his new, hardly-evil-at-all self.

Speaking very slowly, he said, “Harm. Do you remember the Gem of Amara? That thing I was digging for? You know – when we were in Sunnydale?”

Harmony didn’t complain about his condescending manner; she just nodded, like one of those toy dogs that sit in car windows.

“Well …” He took a deep breath. This was gonna hurt, but he felt an inexplicable need to make things absolutely clear – even to Harmony.

“I think that ring might be another one like it. With the same powers. And if I’m right, if you wear it, you can go out in daylight …”

Surely doing the right thing wasn’t supposed to leave a bloke feeling so empty – so hopeless?

“… and not turn to dust.”

He heaved a sigh and waited for a reaction: wonder, or disbelief or maybe squeals of joy; almost anything but what he got. Harmony beamed up at him, like a flower turning its face towards the light.

“Oh, Spike, you _have_ changed! _Really_ changed. When we found the other ring, you nearly ripped my arm off to get it. Now look at you! All moral, and stuff. I’m so proud of you.”

Her eyes were shining. “I knew. I knew what it was all along. But thank you for being so honest with me.”

Spike pursed his lips. So: this was just another bloody test. Well, wasn’t that just dandy. Even Harmony thought she had a right to make him jump through hoops; patronise him; treat him like a hapless rat in a research laboratory.

He watched with a hollow feeling in his chest, as – presumably just to make him feel a little bit worse – Harmony picked up the ring and rolled it around on the quilt, then tried it out on her ring finger and admired it, before replacing it carefully in her box. He stuck his hands in his pockets, so he wouldn’t be tempted just to snatch it. He tried to look like he didn’t care.

“I know how hard that was for you,” Harmony said. “Especially as you think I’m stupid, and all.”

Oh, great. Why not add a hearty dollop of embarrassment to the mix while you’re at it? Resenting her presumption all the more, for being spot on, Spike tried to think of some witty insult to sling at her. Somehow it just didn’t seem worth the effort.

He snorted and turned to go, but she pulled him back, still talking; always talking.

“I found it in Sunnydale with all the other stuff, after you took off. I tried it out once – went out in the sun. It works. I didn’t catch fire.”

“Well, bully for you,” Spike said, trying to prise her hand loose from the back of his jeans. “I’m very happy for you.”

“But I’d forgotten that I used to have to wear like, sunscreen factor a gazillion, even before I was vamped, and I got such bad sunburn, it put me off.”

“Hang on,” Spike said, frowning. “You should have been invulnerable – stakes, holy water, sunburn, common cold, everything.”

“Well, I wasn’t. Not to that anyway. I looked like Doctor Zoidberg. I was so bummed out about it that I put the ring away and never wore it again. I just figured I’d keep it in case of emergency. Then when I got here, Cordy told me about Angel smashing the one you found –”

“Bloody spoilsport,” Spike interjected.

“– so I never dared tell anyone else that I had one. I mean, if _you_ couldn’t stop Buffy taking yours, what chance would _I_ have keeping this one from Angel if he found out about it? But it’s just sitting here doing nothing, so –”

She picked the ring out of the box and smiled beatifically.

“– I’ve decided to give it to you. Here, Spike. You can have it.”

_   
**“WHAT?”**   
_

As Harmony pushed the ring into his hand, Spike was so gob-smacked that he let it fall; it rolled under the bed. Shaking inside, he squatted down to retrieve it, and made a show of examining the precious bauble as he tried to pull himself together.

Bizarre as it seemed, he almost wished he’d nicked it from her. At least when you steal something, you don’t feel any need to be worthy of your ill-gotten gains.

When he finally stood up, she patted him on the arm, and said, “I want you to be able to go play outside with your guy.”

Spike turned his head so she wouldn’t see his face. “You shouldn’t do this to me,” he mumbled. “You’re just tryin’ to destroy that cool cynical vibe I’ve been working so hard on, all century.”

“It’s not just for you – it’s for Riley as well,” she said judiciously. “He could have dusted me that time he caught me on campus, but he didn’t. He just told me not to eat the students, which I thought was pretty fair. Then because of that, I came here, and met Cordy again, and I have a job and a safe place to stay, so ...”

Still somewhat overcome, Spike swiftly stooped and planted a kiss on her cheek.

It was like kissing a marshmallow.

He drew back, blinking hard and sniffing.

It was just her face-powder getting in his eyes.

“You sure about this Harm?” he asked. “I mean, as grand gestures go, this tops most of ’em, but if you wanna change your mind –”

She folded her hands around his.

“I want you two to be happy. After all, I did kinda help bring you together, didn’t I? With the story-book, and the telling-him-where-to-find-you?”

She looked up at him, with wide, hopeful eyes.

“Yeah, right. So you did.” Spike scuffed the toe of his boot on the floor. “I was such a shit to you –”

Harmony rolled her eyes and flicked an invisible speck of dust off her lap. “Well – you’re a guy,” she said philosophically. “But we had some good times, didn’t we?”

Spike smiled and nodded. “Yeah, we did. Thanks.”

He put the ring in his pocket, adding with genuine regret, “I’d give you the mirror in fair exchange – done alright without it so far, though I say so myself – but Angel’d probably get all upset if I gave his present away.”

“He_** so**_ would!” She nodded vigorously, her eyes like saucers.

“And don’t tell Angel about this for now, okay?” Spike said. “It’ll be our secret.”

She glowed and – very carefully – drew a cross in the air above her heart. “Our secret,” she said.

When he left the room there was a conspiratorial smile on her face.

~~

Harmony waited for Spike to close the door, before taking the top tray out of her trinket box. Feeling worthy, smug and a little sly, she poked at the items in the bottom layer. Yes, the third Gem of Amara that she’d found was still there.

She polished it on her bedspread and looked through it; inside it. There were markings on the inner surface of the metal: what looked like a little sun, with an arrow piercing it. She wondered what that meant. Thinking she might ask Wesley about it one day, she put the ring back in its hiding place.

Well, you never knew when you might need one.

~~

When Spike appeared in the lobby, looking surreptitious, and clutching something tightly in his fist, Wesley was instantly alert.

“Angel about?” Spike asked: his attempt to sound casual, a transparent failure.

“No, he hasn’t emerged yet,” Wesley assured him. “This is rather early for you too, isn’t it Spike?”

“Yeah, well. Riley woke me when he got up to go souvenir-shopping for his folks.” Spike glanced around him. “Wes, can you keep a secret? From Angel, I mean?”

Uneasy, Wesley replied, “I suppose I could – if it didn’t concern him directly.”

Spike opened his hand to reveal the item he was holding.

Wesley raised a quizzical eyebrow.

“Don’t worry, I’m not proposing,” Spike said dryly.

Wesley allowed himself a faint smile. “I did realise _that_. So this is …?”

“Well, it looks just like the Gem of Amara. But word was, Angel destroyed it in a fit of pique.”

“Hardly that,” Wesley said mildly.

“Well, anyway – that’s why I don’t want him to know. Harmony gave it to me –”

“She _gave_ this to you?”

“S’what I said.” Spike raised his chin, as if daring Wesley to mistrust him. “I didn’t pinch it, if that’s what you think.”

“Good heavens! That’s very beneficent of her,” Wesley said, somewhat nonplussed.

“Yeah. What of it?”

“Nothing! Nothing at all.” Though he tried for ‘nonchalant’, Wesley could hardly wait to record this example of generosity between supposedly soul-less, unrelated vampires, in his diary. It was doubtful that anyone on the Council of Watchers would believe it, even if he told them – and he didn’t intend to – but it ought to be noted down somewhere for posterity.

“We have … a history …” Spike admitted, with some reluctance.

As though _ that_ was supposed to explain anything!

“Anyway, the thing is, Harm reckons this one works – for sunlight anyway. She didn’t combust when she went out. But she got regular, garden-variety sunburn, so I thought it might be some cheap knock-off.”

“And you’d like me to see whether I can uncover any further information for you,” Wesley said, still re-arranging his mental furniture.

“Got it in one. The research I did when I found mine only stretched so far as where to find it. If this one has a limited range or only works on Tuesdays – anything whacky like that – I don’t much fancy finding out the dusty way.”

“Absolutely,” Wesley agreed with a wince. “Well, I’ll certainly look into it for you.”

“Thanks, Wes.”

Tossing the ring nervously from one hand to the other, Spike added, “And please, don’t mention it to Riley either – the Gem, I mean. In case it’s not up to snuff. Don’t want to get his hopes up.”

“Of course.” Wesley picked up his pen, ready to return to the translation he’d been working on, but Spike was still standing there, shuffling from one foot to the other.

“And … there’s something else,” Spike said, as he pocketed the ring.

“What’s that?”

Spike studied his fingernails. “Could you put a spell together for me?” The words came out in a rush, as though Spike wasn’t really sure he wanted to be heard. “Ingredients, instructions, incantation … whatever someone might need to dis-invite a vamp from their home.”

Wesley raised an eyebrow, inviting clarification.

“It’s for Riley’s folks,” Spike said. “Just in case.”

Wesley felt a pang of sympathy. “Of course, Spike.”

Perhaps it was just as well – if somewhat out of character – that Spike was being cautious.

“Leave it to me. I’ll have it ready by this evening.”

Spike ducked his head, and took his leave.

~~

Later in the day, while Riley was out at the auto shop, checking progress on the Camaro, and picking up the SUV, Wesley came up to Spike’s room with news on his research.

“Well, my books were quite helpful on this occasion,” he said. “Could you show me the ring once more?”

“Sure.” Spike fished in his pocket, found the ring, and dropped the precious thing into Wesley’s outstretched palm.

“It seems that your original research about the Gem was, as you implied, a little … incomplete. An ‘s’ must have got lost in translation. There are, in fact, a number of Gems of Amara.”

Holding the ring between thumb and forefinger, Wesley examined the inner surface of the metal.

“Ah, yes. See here? If you look closely at the inside of the ring, you should be able to make out a tiny engraved symbol that represents the sun.”

Spike peered at it. “Yeah – just about.”

“That indicates that this ring is one of the first proto-types. It purports to give protection only from death by sunlight, not imperviousness to all danger.”

“Good enough for me!” Spike said.

“The ring that Angel destroyed would have shown a plain circle – indicating ‘all peril insurance’, as it were. And at least one other Gem is mentioned specifically … one that protects a vampire against intentional physical harm by another. Inside the shank of that ring, you would expect to see a spear depicted, though obviously I can’t confirm that without actually seeing it.”

Wesley rubbed his hands together.

“And there is speculation that other proto-types were also made, probably giving specific protection from holy water or decapitation, and various combinations of all the individual perils a vampire might suffer.”

“I wouldn’t have been first in line to test the decapitation model,” Spike said, making a face.

“Er … quite,” Wesley agreed. “I wonder where the other – or others – ended up.”

“Might still be in the crypt in Sunnydale, where I found the first one,” Spike suggested. “Maybe you should give Giles a heads-up. Tell him to go and have a shufti. If any vamps happen on one of ’em, it could give Angel’s bird a nasty shock.”

“That’s most thoughtful,” Wesley said. He seemed surprised. “I’m rather pleased that Harmony gave this to you. I imagine it will make things a lot easier with Riley’s family.”

“Yes, I’m sure it will – if it works okay.”

In fact, he wasn’t sure of it at all: hadn’t had time to think it through yet, but Wesley cut into his speculation.

“Well, as with all enchanted items, I advise caution at first – spells can sometimes be unstable. Just take it for short outings, not too far from cover, until you’re confident of it. And always take something you can hide under, like one of those foil blankets they use at sporting events.” Wesley’s mouth quirked in amusement. “Or perhaps some kind of parasol.”

“Oi!” Spike let his eyes show a brief flash of gold.

Wesley didn’t even blink. He just went on calmly, “I don’t see why this has to be kept secret from Angel. It’s not as though he still mistrusts you.”

“You reckon?” Spike frowned. “You don’t think he’ll try and pinch it – destroy it, like he did the other one?”

“Spike, the reason he destroyed that one was to ensure that daytime pursuits didn’t distract him from his Mission,” Wesley patiently explained.

“Typical.” Spike raised his eyes heavenwards. “The day Angel gets distracted from the Mission, Old Nick’ll be breaking out his toboggan.”

~~

When Wesley had gone, Spike slipped quietly down to the back garden, with the Gem in his right hand. The early afternoon sun was barely more than a pale, watery disc today: not much of a test really, but maybe that was for the best.

Spike had a quick look around to make sure he wasn’t being observed, then he began trying the ring on each finger in turn, starting with the right pinkie. That was clearly ridiculous, but he was playing for time. A foolish reluctance to test his new toy had taken hold of him.

There was an uncomfortable suspicion in the back of his mind, that this was just some cruel joke Harmony was playing on him, to get back at him for the rotten way he’d behaved towards her. God knows he’d treated her like crap.

‘I love Syphilis more than you’: he’d said that, hadn’t he? It was a rotten thing to say, even assuming she’d just thought ‘Syphilis’ was the name of some other Californian bird he’d dated.

What the hell had happened to his manners? His chivalry?

It would serve him right if it _was_ a trick. But Wesley thought the Gem was the real McCoy, didn’t he? Unless he was in on the game …

Come on, Spike, stop buggering about.

The Gem didn’t fit too well on any of the fingers of his right hand, so he tried the left. He began with the thumb, but the ring was clearly too small for that. It wouldn’t easily go on his index or middle fingers either. Reluctantly, he slid it onto the third finger, alongside the ring Riley had given him, only yesterday.

He didn’t like it overwhelming the more important, but less flashy item, but – Sod’s Law – it fit like it belonged there.

No more excuses then.

Now or never.

He gritted his teeth, clenched his left fist and thrust it out into the sunlight.

It felt … warm; just warm. There was no pain; no smell of burning flesh; no smoke rising from his hand.

So far: so good.

Very slowly, he walked forward, holding his arm out in front of him, until the whole of it – right up to the shoulder where his t-shirt began – was in the sunlight. He stayed like that until he could perceive the difference between the sun’s warmth and the cool patterns laid on his skin like a complex tattoo, by the tendrils of the climbing plants on the trellis.

Finally, he stepped forward so that his whole body was in the open, and stood with his arms outstretched on either side, and his face turned up to greet his former enemy: the sun.

His skin tingled as the rays slowly penetrated, setting muscles that had been cold for a hundred years aglow, flooding his core with a feeling of warmth he’d missed for so long it seemed like he’d been deep-frozen, and not just the flesh and bone.

Perhaps this was how Barabbas felt on his release: when an arbitrary universe decided on forgiveness, instead of the punishment he’d dreaded and expected – and perhaps deserved. It was glorious and it was frightening: a bright new day dawning: bringing both great hope and great responsibility.

_   
**“SPIKE!”**   
_

He heard Riley yelling his name before he saw him at the garden gate. As Riley pounded towards him, Spike grinned, lifting his arms in a gesture of welcome and triumph.

Riley was already launching himself forward to carry Spike with him into the shade, and safety, when a look of astonished realisation crossed his face.

He tried to halt his advance, but he was already moving forward too fast. He cannoned into Spike, who stumbled backwards a little, laughing, and catching him; breaking his fall as they both landed on the paving.

Riley raised himself on his arms and stared down at him as he lay on the ground, still laughing, excited and breathless.

“You’re not on fire!” Riley said, wonderingly.

“Nope!” Spike said, grinning wildly. “Aren’t you glad?”

“Yeah, but … how ...?”

“Magic!”

Spike held up his left hand and waggled his ring finger before Riley’s wide eyes. “Remember, the ring I told you about, that let me go out in daylight? The one Angel broke?”

“So … it got mended? And this is it?” Riley asked as he stood up and hauled Spike to his feet.

“Yeah, the Wicked Witch of the West came and did a spell to find the bits and …”

Riley’s mouth dropped open.

“No, Mate. I’m pulling your leg. Turns out, there was another Gem – another ring. Harmony found it.”

“And she let you borrow it?”

“Er … no, actually.”

“What then?” Riley said anxiously. “Please tell me you didn’t take it without asking her.”

Spike tried not to feel hurt that even Riley would suspect him. It wasn’t like he hadn’t considered it.

“She … gave it to me.”

“Wow!” Riley went quiet for a minute. “She didn’t make you … do anything … promise anything for it?”

His face scrunched up as though he wasn’t sure he really wanted to know the answer.

“Only that I’d go and play with you outside,” Spike replied, all innocence.

Riley’s pupils dilated as he contemplated the possibilities. “Well … that’s … I say again, ‘Wow!’”

“So … you won’t mind that I’ll be wearing a ring someone else gave me?” Spike said, a little warily. “On the same finger, with yours?”

“Are you kidding?” Riley clasped Spike’s hands between his own.

“The ring I gave you yesterday? It’s just a ring, Spike – it’s only a token. You wear, don’t wear it, lose it – sell it, even – won’t change how I feel about you. But this is … it’s so great I can’t even begin to think about it! You can see the whole farm in daylight … come visit me when I’m working. We can go swimming –”

“I can think of other things,” Spike said. He smiled slyly when he heard Riley’s heart speed up.

“I know a place …” Riley said breathlessly.

“I’ll bet you do …” Spike pressed against Riley. “You know all the places.”

They kissed, warm lips melting against warm lips, and Spike could have stayed drowning in that honey forever, but he felt Riley push him back a little.

“I have to go thank Harmony,” Riley said. “And you should go inside. It’s still making me nervous even thinking about you standing around in daylight.”

“It’s okay – I won’t go far from cover,” he assured Riley. “Wesley said I shouldn’t rely on it until I’ve tested it properly, but I’ll feel it in time, if the protection’s failing.”

“Yeah, but even so – you know what it’s like with rings. Sometimes, you’re nervous, you might turn it around a couple of times, even take it off. Do that with this one while you’re out in the sun, and you’re dead … really dead.” Riley looked away. “And I’m not far behind.”

“Don’t say that,” Spike said softly, brushing his fingertips against Riley’s cheek.

“Why not?” Riley said, looking him in the eye once more. “It’s the truth. But hey, I have an idea. When you go inside, you should take both rings off and swap them – their positions I mean.”

“Put her ring on first? With yours on the outside?”

“You got it.”

Despite what Riley’d just said, about his ring being only a token, Spike didn’t much like the sound of that. It was bad enough he had to wear both rings on the same finger; this seemed even more wrong.

But Harmony’s will be –”

“Closer to your heart?” Riley shook his head, and smiled. “Yeah, I get it Spike. But what’s more important, is that mine will be keeping you safe.”

“How so?”

“Well, even if you did take one of them off without thinking, you wouldn’t do it with both. This way, it’ll be mine you’d take off, then you can just put it back on, no harm done.”

“That’s bleedin’ officer thinking is that,” Spike said. “Good thing you’re on my side. Thank you.”

“It’s what I’m here for.” Riley grinned happily.

“Who needs sunshine anyway …” Spike murmured.

“What’s that?”

“Oh … nothing, love.” Spike grinned back and punched Riley on the arm. “Just blinded by the light reflecting off your choppers. What’s the news on our transport by the way?”

“SUV’s parked outside. We can set out whenever you’re ready.”

Spike breathed a sigh. “Tonight then,” he said. “We’ll leave tonight.”

~~

Dusk had fallen. It was time to leave. Everyone stood around in the Hyperion lobby, feeling like spare parts; not quite knowing what to say, but not quite ready for it to be ‘goodbye.’

“You two reprobates – look after the Boss, yeah?” Spike instructed Harmony and Genevieve severely.

“We will!” they chorused.

Angel’s indignant protest – “Hey, standing right here!” – was completely ignored.

“You too, Princess,” Spike said, addressing Cordelia and earning himself a gracious smile. “Keep him occupied – don’t let him brood.”

“Like I need you, to tell me my job, Mister!”

“How many brides did Dracula have?” Riley enquired innocently.

Angel managed to muster a convincing glare, but it didn’t last.

“Don’t suppose I’ll be seeing either of you again anytime soon,” he said, looking intently at each of them in turn, as if trying to implant a psychic homing device in their brains.

“Well, we’re not likely to bump into each other down the pub,” Spike replied, one eyebrow cocked.

“But we’ll be in touch, right?”

Spike looked at Angel pityingly. The big pillock was standing with his hands in his pockets, swivelling his hips, like a sulky kid whose teacher had just confiscated his favourite cap gun.

“Yeah, Angel, there’s this thing you might not have heard of. You hold it up to your ear, and if you put in a magic number –” Spike mimed a dialling motion with one hand, as he held the other up to his head: “– you can hear people who are far, far away.”

Sighing, Angel turned to Riley. “Make sure he stays out of trouble.”

“It’s not like I go looking for it,” Spike grumbled.

“Sure you don’t. But indulge an old man, just this once, Spike?”

Spike subsided, because Angel had a point.

“I’ll do what I can with him,” Riley said grinning

“Promises, promises,” Spike responded with a leer, squeezing Riley’s waist.

Angel’s eyes were drawn to Spike’s left hand. “Is that what I think it is?”

“Depends what you think it is.” Spike tilted his chin, determined to be annoying to the last. After all, he wouldn’t get the chance again for a while; except … oh, yeah. Phone.

“I _think_ it’s the Gem of Amara. But –”

“Don’t worry mate. Doesn’t make me invulnerable,” Spike said, adding smoothly – “I got a paper-cut this morning when I opened your mail. This one’s just the budget model. But I _do_ get to go outside, when you can’t.”

He flaunted the ring in Angel’s face, which quickly assumed that constipated expression that meant he was regretting something.

“Going back to your roots, Liam?” Spike enquired solicitously.

“Why?”

“’Cos I think you’re turning green!”

Angel scowled for real this time, and said a little plaintively, “But where did you get it?”

Spike saw Harmony glance nervously at him, but he wasn’t about to grass.

“I do have my own resources you know,” he said, tapping the side of his nose. “Not completely dependent on your charity.”

Angel looked pained.

“If you do decide to come back, sometime, can I …” Angel examined his fingernails: “Can I borrow it? Just now and then? If I need it for work, that is,” he qualified carefully.

“Well, since you beg so prettily …” Spike stuck his tongue out. “Alright then. But you’d better not bloody break this one!”

“I promise,” Angel said ruefully.

Overcome with an excess of benevolence, Spike added, “I might even let you take it on a field trip to Sunnydale. That’ll scare the socks off of Buffy and her super-friends.”

It was such fun, watching Angel trying not to crack a smile.

“Spike, we never got to have that talk –” Wesley began.

“Well, there’s this thing, you hold it up –”

“– to your ear, and you can hear people, yes I know!” Wesley was laughing.

“And anyway, we’ll see you before too long,” Riley said, putting a set of keys in Wesley’s hand. “‘Detailmasters’ will have Spike’s car ready for you to pick up, any time after tomorrow.”

“Speaking of picking things up …” Wesley held out a large envelope to Spike.

“Oh … cheers, Wes.”

He touched Wesley’s elbow and took the packet with a nod of thanks, then – mostly to deflect attention from the transaction – he went on, “Take care with that car of mine, okay? She can be tricky. You might find the clutch a bit stiff, and the gearbox isn’t what it was. And if you’re used to power-steering –”

“I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

There was real confidence in Wesley’s voice. That was new.

“Well …”

“Well …”

“I guess we’re ready,” Riley said.

Spike hugged Harmony and Genevieve, and offered a hand to Cordelia, who shook it, saying, “I got over Angel going all fangy on us more than once, so I guess I can get over Parent-Teacher Night.”

“Too kind,” Spike said, smiling through the sarcasm.

Riley shook hands with Wesley. “Thanks. Really,” he said. “We’ll see you soon.”

Then he pulled Wesley into a manly, back-slapping hug, from which Wesley emerged just a little flushed.

Angel just looked awkwardly at Spike. Spike blinked; swallowed; and snapped a salute.

“Au revoir, Mon Capitaine!” he said, self-consciously. “I’d like to say, ‘I knew you wouldn’t let me down’, but I didn’t. And you didn’t. Thanks.”

Angel responded with a smile of rare warmth and a casual touch of his fingers to the side of his head.

“Bye, Spike. Take care. Be seeing you.”

~~


	14. The Way Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Riley and Spike encounter a few difficulties on the way home.

Spike felt a tug on his heartstrings as they drove away from the Hyperion. The team Angel was getting together wasn’t too annoying once you got used to them. He’d miss Gen; hell, he’d even miss Harmony … a bit; and as for Angel …

Well, it had taken long enough, but at last, they were getting along okay, and yeah, he’d miss him too.

He was man enough to admit it; just not out loud.

Things had worked out pretty well in the end: better than he’d had any right to expect. But it was good to get Riley to himself at last, with no distractions.

Riley felt the same, so they decided to take it slow, sharing the driving between dusk and the early hours of the morning, and lying up all day, getting properly re-acquainted.

It worked out expensive, but they both needed the rest. They were managing to sleep – actual, not euphemism sleep – for twelve hours at a stretch, and when Spike finally surfaced, and greeted each new day, it was with a sense of lightness that he couldn’t remember ever experiencing before.

It might have been joy.

Wherever they took a room, they made sure to get one that had a balcony, so they could wander out onto it during the late afternoon. Spike was starting to get used to feeling the sun on his bare skin – well, not-quite-bare skin. During their first stop, Riley had gone out and bought sunscreen, but Spike wasn’t ready, just yet, to stray too far from cover.

He had too much to lose, and for the first couple of days, the journey was blissfully uneventful.

~~

Such a small thing: a bullet. A piece of metal with no divinely-appointed right; no wig; no gown; no black cap; no qualification to arbitrate life and death, and yet …

It was gone midnight on the third day when they saw the neon sign of a drugstore – or ‘d-ugsto-e’ as the flickering sign proclaimed – and pulled into the parking lot, to get some drinks and snacks.

The cashier sat staring at the TV above his workstation, ignoring the idling shopping cart filled with cookies and potato chips from which he was should have been re-stocking the depleted shelves.

Riley wandered up and down the aisles, looking for anything that looked even vaguely nutritious, while Spike cast a jaundiced eye over the selection of lagers and beers.

Some kids came in: three of them: noisy brats, with their caps on back to front, talking in loud voices as they roamed around the store, testing the boundaries; rolling the carts around, and riding them up and down the aisles; blatantly stashing whatever they wanted in their pockets; playing piggy-in-the-middle with packets of biscuits, until – by some pre-arranged signal – two of them converged on the cashier, while the other peeled off to take up a position near the door.

It had been obvious something was going down, and Spike was already making his way towards where Riley’d been picking through the selection of ‘fresh’ fruit, when one of the wannabe gangsters pulled a knife on the cashier.

Riley stepped out from between the aisles, and took him from behind; the knife clattered to the floor, and the cashier hit an alarm, but the kid slid bonelessly out of Riley’s grasp. He, and the second gang member, skidded away.

Riley started after them; a shot panged off the metal shelving, and now the gun was cocked and pointing at Riley.

“Don’t move!”

Whether it was a command or a plea, the one holding the weapon – the lookout by the door – didn’t seem sure; his hands were shaking.

Not enough to miss at this range though.

“What d’you have to get involved for, man? Fuckin’ do-gooder!”

The kid’s face was a shifting mask – anger, panic and desperation – and then it hardened.

Spike threw himself in front of Riley.

The bullet that would have pierced Riley’s chest hit Spike in the shoulder; barely slowed him down. The kid stared for a split second at Spike’s game-face; lost his nerve; lobbed the gun at him and missed, and – as Spike barrelled towards him in full fangs – he fled.

The door banged shut behind him.

Spike started after one of the two that had dispersed among the aisles, but then pulled up, the pain from the bullet wound kicking in, and Riley was there, supporting him, applying pressure where blood was seeping through his tee-shirt.

“Let ’em go,” Riley said, as the door slammed shut behind the fleeing teenagers. He turned to the cashier. “Will the alarm alert the cops?”

“Nah … well, maybe. They never show up anyways. But thanks, Man …” he glanced at Spike, whose game-face was just subsiding: “… or whatever.” He gestured expansively at the liquor shelves. “Take anything you want.”

The single malt dulled the pain, when Riley cut the bullet out.

Well, a bit.

Spike tried not to wince or curse too much, though truth be told, it hurt like a bastard – but when he saw the blood staining the back seat of Riley’s beloved SUV where the blanket he was lying on had slipped, Spike let out a loud groan.

“Sorry,” Riley said, not stopping what he was doing. “I’m nearly done.”

“Your car …” Spike gestured feebly at the red stains on the fabric. “I’ve messed it up.”

Riley turned a stunned gaze on him. “You think I give a crap about the upholstery?”

Spike tried to shrug, but that _really_ hurt.

“Keep still,” Riley chided him, carrying on his work with swift, economical movements.

“Sorry Matron!”

Spike did his best to keep a straight face, but the drink got the better of him, and he had to choke back a fit of giggles.

Riley shook his head, mildly perplexed. When he’d finished cleaning and bandaging the wound, he wiped the mangled slug of metal, and held it up for Spike to see.

“There. That’s what you took for me,” he said. “Thanks.”

He kissed Spike on the forehead, and Spike grabbed the back of his head, brought their lips together, and snogged him, drunkenly.

“’Course,” he slurred. “Only fair. Take any number of ’em for you, love. Not much you need me for, but _that,_ I _can_ do. Vampire body-guard’s better’n Kevlar.”

“Hmm … sure is,” Riley said. “Kevlar doesn’t kiss back.”

“You’ve tried kissing Kevlar?” Spike was trying for a quizzical look, but he had a strong suspicion that it just ended up as lop-sided.

Riley didn’t seem to mind; he laid a hand on the bandaged wound. “Idiot,” he said, helping Spike get settled more comfortably in the back seat. “I think the thermos is empty, but if you want …” He offered his left forearm.

Spike shook his head. “Don’t wan’ you passin’ out at the wheel. ’Sides, this is almost as good.” He brandished the half-empty bottle.

Riley laughed and rolled his sleeve down again. “Well, if you’re sure … Try and get some rest while I find us somewhere for the night.”

~~

They rested up for a few days in a nice little place in the Rockies: reading the papers, watching TV, and making out more tentatively than usual: grateful that it hadn’t been more serious. A vampire’s wounds heal quickly, but the incident had scared Spike, though not on his own account.

Such a small thing: a bullet.

He’d come too close to having to make that choice: to lose Riley, or turn him. He wasn’t ready for that – not ready at all – and neither, he knew, was Riley.

But it was okay for now. They’d have plenty days together in the sun.

~~

They continued on their way. Riley used Spike’s injury as an excuse to do most of the driving, and for a change, Spike didn’t complain. Mostly the time passed in companionable silence, or equally companionable chit-chat, as they each remembered incidents or bits of gossip from the time they’d spent apart: some eccentricity of Wesley’s, or something funny Harmony had said.

But sometimes what forced its way into Spike’s consciousness was some humiliation he’d suffered: a memory of captivity, or of Angel’s testing of him – and he’d be about to spill, but then think better of it. Those times he would go very quiet, and Riley had the sense to leave him be.

Stopping at odd times, in unfamiliar places, it wasn’t always easy to find a ready supply of blood, and Spike would often have drained the thermos when they were still miles from their next stop.

He didn’t always mention it; tried not to make a big deal out of it – but it put him on edge. He could have asked Riley to feed him, but to reduce that bond, as powerful and as primal as it was – the sharing of life – to something so prosaic; to expect Riley to open a vein because the shops were shut, seemed close to blasphemy.

The place they stopped on the fifth night wasn’t a one-horse town, but when they went out looking for a very late- or very early-opening butcher, they came back to their hotel empty-handed.

“Well, that was fruitless … meatless … bloodless … whatever,” Spike said with a vexed shake of his head. He’d been dry most of the day.

“If you want –”

“Shh!”

Spike held up a hand, and put his ear to their hotel room door, then signalled to Riley that there was someone inside.

Riley frowned, and mimed what they should do. Spike nodded assent; Riley quietly slid the key-card down through the lock and worked the handle, and Spike kicked the door open.

The man standing by the bed whipped round, scattering a handful of their possessions.

“Looking for something?” Spike said coldly.

Riley slammed the door shut.

The intruder, trying to reach the open patio doors that lead to the balcony, almost fell over his feet, and the contents of their packs, which lay strewn around the floor, and Spike – in no mood to let him get off lightly – cut off his escape.

Slowly, Spike let his features transform.

Wouldn’t do any harm to give the kid a scare.

Terrified eyes looked back at him, from a face gaunt and wasted from drug abuse. The man – barely more than a teenager – was muttering to himself: “Those pills Mitch gave me … must have been some bad shit ...”

Then he stared at Spike again, shaking his head as Spike advanced on him, fangs elongating, brow-ridges fully engorged.

“You can go as deep into denial as you want, but I’m not gonna disappear.”

“Man, this has _got_ to be a bad trip. Jeez! What are you? Are you for real? Your face!”

“Like you’re such an oil painting,” Spike snarled, as he took hold of him by the shoulders and held him hard against the wall, fangs just grazing his neck.

_“What’s wrong with your face?”_– came the terrified whisper.

“What do you think mate?” Spike said to Riley, not turning his head away from the kid’s throbbing jugular.

“Your face looks perfectly fine to me,” Riley affirmed.

He sounded distracted – maybe a bit annoyed – but now wasn’t the time to ask about it.

“Wanna check we still have everything that’s ours?” Spike said, not loosening his grip on the prisoner.

While Riley checked that none of their stuff was missing, Spike – despite his hunger – controlled his urge to bite. This intruder didn’t exactly fit the ‘innocent’ category, but he stank; the blood pumping in those arteries would be weak, and taste bad anyway, from whatever stuff the little idiot had been swallowing, or snorting, or shooting up.

But Spike itched to take something – however petty – from the thief, so he frisked him, and in the kid’s pocket, found his own silver lighter: the one that Riley had bought to replace his old one, before he’d started trying to give up smoking.

“That’s bloody low,” he said, dropping his captive in disgust. “Not like you’d even get much for this. How many people want a lighter with ‘Spike’ engraved on it?”

The guy looked too confused and terrified to think rationally. Bored now, Spike shook his head. What were they teaching them in crime school these days?

“I think everything’s here,” Riley confirmed.

“Lucky for you, whelp,” Spike grunted. Then he shoved their unwanted guest out of the room. “Next time – pick on someone richer.”

He slammed the door, and pressed his forehead against it. In a foul temper now, he couldn’t shake it off; couldn’t lose the fangs either, and just when he thought he was getting somewhere, Riley’s voice, hard-edged and belligerent, cut into the pregnant silence.

“See something you want, did you?”

Spike felt his demon fire up anew, and struggled to hold it in check. “No.”

“Feel like slumming it?”

Slowly, Spike turned to look at Riley. “What’s got your goat?”

“Goat? What goat? Where do goats come into it? Wasn’t any goat looking at that guy’s neck, like it was a five-course banquet. My blood not good enough for you, you have to pick on street trash for kicks?”

The room suddenly seemed too small.

“_Your_ blood?” Spike pinned Riley with a sullen, smouldering glare. “You knew I was hungry. Didn’t hear you volunteering any.”

“Last time I offered, you said ‘no.’ And anyway, you know everything I have is yours. If that’s not enough for you –”

Spike jerked his head back. “Jealous, Riley? Of that kid?”

“Yeah, I’m jealous. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“That’s pathetic,” Spike said. He understood, with perfect clarity, but hunger and irritation made him obstinate. “We just met. Nearly took a bite of him is all. Did I get jealous of the chips and peas you had for dinner, or give your breakfast cereal the hairy eyeball?”

Riley shoved him up against the wall. “Don’t even try to make out it’s just about food,” he gritted out. Beads of sweat stood out on his brow. “You know damn well it’s not.”

For a few furious, silent seconds, that burning coal was tossed back and forth between them, in their locked gazes.

“Look at anyone else’s neck like that again, and I’ll –”

“You’ll what?” Spike flashed out.

Riley released him, and stood back a little. “Nothing …” he said, his face reddening. “Just please don’t … don’t drink from anyone else. Only me.”

Spike closed his eyes, and threw his head back, breathing hard, as he held back the roar rising in his chest. This man he thought he knew so well could still find ways to astonish and liberate him; new ways to set his heart ablaze.

It was true. Drinking someone – their blood, their life: whether taken by force, or given freely – it meant something: always. And Riley wanted all those meanings to be reserved for him.

That night he did things to Riley that – consent or no – would have made the chip fire fit to par-boil his brain, and Riley took it without protest; even goaded and pushed him to go a further; letting him know that – for whatever twisted reason: penance or promise or bond of trust – he wanted it, and a part of Spike was grateful for it and only too willing to oblige.

And afterwards, when Riley lay spread out before him, marked and bloodied, he looked relaxed and blissed-out, as though a heavy burden had been lifted from him.

But when the morning light streamed in through the open blinds, and when Spike saw what he’d done, he had to look away. Relieved it wasn’t worse, he just said quietly, “It’ll get better. _I’ll_ get better. Give me time, yeah?”

“I’ll give you more than that,” Riley promised; then he yawned hugely, and pulled Spike back onto the bed, holding him down like a big lazy cat with its prey, and Spike let him take his revenge how he wanted it: hot and sweet.

~~

As they drove on, the next night, the stars coming out around them, Spike was unusually silent. He didn’t even complain about Riley’s choice of driving music – which had to be a first. Still, they hadn’t gotten much sleep, so maybe it wasn’t so remarkable.

After fifty miles without uttering a word, Spike said, “Do you want me to … get a soul? Try for one anyway? I was telling Angel – I heard it’s in Africa – there’s these demon trials –”

“Hell no!” Riley had just been watching the road, but when he heard the word ‘Africa’, what Spike was suggesting finally registered. “Why would you wanna do that? Haven’t you been through enough trials?”

“Well, they’re supposed to be pretty tough, but I’d do it. For you. Wanna be worthy of you … your love ... trust. And I’m not. Not if last night’s anything to go by.”

Riley heaved a sigh. “Spike, quit it, will you? Last night was … well, I pushed you. You know that.” He looked steadily at the road ahead. “And I don’t know what the big deal is with this soul thing. It’s not important – not to me. Like I told Angel, I’m not even sure I have one. Not even sure there is such a thing.”

“See Angel when he loses his, you’ll believe it,” Spike told him.

And Riley knew Spike was telling the truth, because he felt a cold shudder run through him.

“Well, you’re not Angel, and you have enough soul for my comfort. Just keep going the direction you are – you’ll be fine. Get much more, you’ll be too good for me.”

Spike laughed, and shook his head.

~~

They’d stopped for the night, just one more drive from home. Spike had dropped his bag, glanced briefly at the mini-bar prices, snorted, and gone out again.

‘Just be a minute’, he’d said; but it had been well over an hour.

As Riley paced their hotel room, wondering whether to go looking for him, he couldn’t for the life of him stop Gene Pitney’s mournful falsetto from wailing ‘Twenty-four hours from Tulsa’ in his head.

He was just scribbling a note to leave for Spike, so he could risk taking a turn around the block, when a jolt from the ring warned him Spike was back in range, and in a highly agitated state. Riley flung the door open and Spike hurtled along the deserted passageway towards him.

He was wired and vamped, and that wasn’t in any way reassuring.

“Shit, Spike, where d’you get to?” He dragged Spike inside and shut the door. “I was getting worried. What have you been up to? Growing the hops, and brewing the damn beer yourself?”

But Spike didn’t laugh. “Sorry. Didn’t get the stuff. Beer, potato chips, papers – nothing.” He looked around him wildly. “Riley, I think I’ve fucked up. _Really_ fucked up.”

Spike’s air of desperation was chilling. Riley had to take hold of him just to stop his frantic and random pacing, and get Spike to look him in the eye, even for a second.

“Cool it, Spike. Tell me what happened. What did you do?”

“There was this girl. She was in trouble.” Spike’s eyes darted around the room as though looking for someone to blame. “I couldn’t stand to hear it. Had to stop it –”

“Spike, _what did you do?_” He shook Spike to snap him out of his funk.

Spike looked at him steadily at last, yellow slotted eyes wide. “Not tellin’ you.”

Disturbed to see such heart-shrinking despair, so clearly expressed, even on Spike’s changed countenance, Riley felt the blood drain from his face. “You didn’t kill her?”

“No! Not her.”

“But … you killed somebody?”

“You don’t wanna know.”

“Spike,_ please_. I have to know.”

Riley didn’t like the edge of hysteria – honed by Spike’s obstinate silence – in his own voice. He took a couple of deep breaths, trying to get a grip. At least one of them had to stay calm.

Slowly and patiently, he explained, “If someone’s been killed, the police will be involved, and if they link it to us … well, I have to know what I’m to say. I don’t lie well, if I don’t know what the truth is.”

Spike frowned, processing, then – looking a little reassured – he pulled his shoulders back.

“Okay, so … truth is? I … don’t know.”

~~

He hadn’t been looking for trouble; he’d been looking for beer. Nothing wrong with that. The mini-bar prices at this new place – now they were criminal, so he’d gone out to find a store, and pick up a few flip-tops, and whatever else they might fancy.

Hadn’t meant to take too long about it, but a spanking new Beamer caught his eye, and when he stopped to admire it, the battery of smells overlaying one another hit him like a succession of slaps in the face with a wet fish.

Mingled with ‘new-car’ aroma, and the anodyne ‘Forest Glade’ deodorizer, was the pungency of strong disinfectant, which entirely failed to mask the unmistakable stench of day-old blood, from a lethal injury: most likely a gut wound, judging by the distinctive emanation.

It was coming from the trunk of the car.

Damn his curiosity. Spike started walking round the vehicle to see if there were any open windows or unlocked doors, and before he got halfway, he heard noises – but not from the car. They were coming from a nearby alley.

Someone – a girl – was babbling sobs and pleas, the words tripping over one another in their haste to come to her aid. It was in some southern European tongue, but Spike didn’t have to speak the lingo to know that she was begging for her life. As a universal language, fear left Esperanto in the dust.

There were jeering male voices as well; two – no, three – of them.

Spike slid round the side of the alley and let his demon senses have free rein. Yes, there were three men: none of them facing his way, and he could just make out a girl backed up against the wall.

Her terrified whimpers did strange things to Spike’s insides, and as for the smell of her fear ...

“You first Jack,” one of the men said.

There was the sound of a belt buckle being undone, and then a zip. The men began to close in around their prey, and Spike saw the tell-tale glint of steel; one of them was holding a knife behind his back, where the girl wouldn’t see it.

This was going to be nasty. Make the girl give them whatever they wanted, then gut her, same as the last one. They were a piece of work, all three of ’em.

Someone ought to do something …

Spike took an involuntary step forward; then he stopped himself. This was out of his jurisdiction: human stuff – not a gang of demons on the rampage. Not like he knew the bint, or owed her anything.

Wasn’t his affair: was it?

But there was no one else around, and over a century of experience had taught him that blind alleys the world over, just like this one, had learned to turn shuttered eyes and deaf ears on the suffering of anyone unfortunate enough to get into difficulties within their narrow confines.

And such blindness was evidently contagious.

Spike shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts.

What would Riley do? What would Riley want _him_ to do?

Cursing himself for having left his mobile at the hotel, Spike waited, in the faint hope that someone else might come along and pitch in; waited for some flash of insight to help him.

In earlier times he’d have pretended to rescue the bird; killed and eaten her attackers, and then finished her off – her blood sweet with stillborn relief – for dessert.

But somewhere along the line, something had changed, and now the victim’s terror tasted bitter on his tongue; felt like ice in his guts. It made him sick, and angry.

The girl had fallen or been pushed to her knees: not begging now, but still using her mouth to try and persuade her captors to spare her.

Spike felt his stomach turn over at the cat-calls, and the gagging sounds, as she sobbed around the man’s dick.

Poor chit was helpless.

It was like a light being switched on in his head.

He was going to play the white hat; put a stop to it. Riley’d do it, wouldn’t he? He’d wade in; wouldn’t let a person come to harm if he could prevent it. Riley _had_ done it: for him, that night in the Initiative cells.

Three to one was okay; with the advantage of surprise, he shouldn’t even break a sweat. Just have to pick his moment, and watch out for that blade.

The girl was starting to choke.

“Jeez! You suck!” one of the men said: “– badly!”

That wasn’t very nice at all.

There was a half-brick lying conveniently in a doorway, and Spike silently collected it.

“The little Philippino we did last night was better than you.”

It’d be satisfying to draw their attention: tell them: ‘Still did ’er in though, didn’t you?’ – just to see the looks on their faces when they saw what they were dealing with. But that would be stupid, and the girl might pay the price.

No unnecessary risks.

“Didn’t even make a noise when we nailed her ass,” one of them said.

“Well, her mouth was full,” another said, chortling as though it was the wittiest comeback ever.

That did it.

No introductions; no banter; Spike took them from behind.

Maybe he’d forgotten how hard he could hit when he wanted, and maybe he didn’t care too much, but two of them were on the ground in seconds.

The third one yanked his prick out of the girl’s mouth, and whipped round to see who had blind-sided his colleagues, and as he backed away, pants undone and bow-tie askew, Spike recognized his puffy Frat-boy face.

He’d seen that ugly mug before, in Cleveland: leering through the side of the wrought iron elevator cage, as the owner of the face reached through, to maul and abuse the only being in that house of pain to show Spike any kindness.

Smouldering anger ignited in a sheet of flame. “Well, what do you know?” Spike snarled.

The girl scrambled sideways, glancing from her attacker to her monstrous saviour, unsure which she should fear the most.

Spike cracked the bones in his neck, rolled his shoulders, and took a single slow step towards the man.

“I do love meeting old friends.”

“Old fr …?”

The man stared back at him, wide-eyed and confused, but he recognised what Spike was, even if the ‘who’ escaped him. His eyes flicked to the side, and he dropped to the ground, reaching towards a bit of a broken wooden packing crate that lay among the overflow from a dumpster.

He wasn’t quick enough.

~~

“Might have killed ’em,” Spike admitted, reluctant and sullen; ashamed too, though he still wasn’t sure why. They’d deserved worse. “Didn’t bite ’em, I swear I didn’t. Didn’t stop to put ’em in recovery position either. The two I smashed on the head might just be out for the count.”

“And the other one?”

“I was angry.”

Angry didn’t even begin to cover it. That mean alley: his road to Damascus, he’d set about his work with the white hot fervour of the new convert; consumed in sudden fury at this man – these men – and anyone who just bought or took, and destroyed, whatever and whoever they wanted, with no fear of the consequences.

“Lost it. Lost control,” Spike confessed. “Got him on the ground. Kicked him till he stopped movin’.”

Riley hissed out a single expletive: “Shit!” – then he began moving with purposeful economy about the room, collecting stuff he’d recently unpacked. “Wasn’t that a bit extreme?”

“Was it?” Spike wiped a hand over his forehead, then stared at it. Hadn’t even realised he was in game-face, until his hand touched the ridges still distorting his features.

“I don’t know. S’why I’m so late,” Spike went on. “Part of it anyway. Didn’t know whether I’d done wrong or right. Guessed it was wrong, because I wanted to do it. Didn’t know what to do about it. Keep quiet, lay this on you, or just take off.” He looked away. “Couldn’t leave. Too much of a coward.”

“Thank God you didn’t!” Riley rubbed a hand over his eyes. “No, you … you did the best thing – telling me.” He looked about him, as if to find an answer written on the walls, or woven into the carpet on the floor of their hotel room. “Shit!”

“They’d done it before.” Spike heard a desperate pleading note enter his voice, as he tried to marshal his defence. Had to make Riley understand; he hadn’t done it for blood or kicks.

“And they’d killed – last night, I could smell it all over ’em. Their motor stank of it. I’d lay odds the sick bastards were gonna kill her too, Riley. And one – I’d know his face anywhere. It was one of the blokes bought Gen. Must have been trying his luck, seeing what he could get for free.”

“Jesus! Some people!” Riley said. He blinked and huffed out a breath. “Understatement of the decade! What about the girl, was she –”

“They’d roughed her up a bit, and she was scared. Almost as scared of me as she was of the blokes who done it to her. She ran off when I tried to talk to ’er – well, limped off, more like. But I made sure she got to the main street. Someone took her to the ER.”

He paused, and realised Riley was packing; getting ready to leave. He couldn’t blame him, but it hurt like hell.

“Sorry to shit so close to our backyard, mate, but what could I do? They’d have killed her, I’m sure of it. Evil fuckers.”

Frowning, he paused, and shook his head. “And I know it’s pot and kettle here – things I did before I met you, and never thought twice about ’em. But it’s not so hard to change. Not if I can do it.”

He bit his lower lip, wondering how to make it right. It was insane, but … “I could … give myself up – go to a police station … tell them how it was.”

Riley’s face was a mask of confusion. Spike hated himself for putting Riley in this position. Should have just done a runner – spared him this.

“No,” Riley said quietly. “You can’t. If you got taken into custody – or even for questioning – you might be exposed to sunlight. We can’t take that risk.”

“I have the Gem,” Spike reminded him.

“They’d surely take it, and bag it, if they arrested you.”

“Huh! When they found nothing but a pile of dust in the cell, they’d think I’d given ’em the slip,” Spike said with a grimace.

Riley squeezed his eyes tight shut. “That’s not funny.”

“No, it’s not. None of it is.”

Spike chewed on his thumb. “Fuck, Riley. I’m so fucking sorry. Not for those cunts, they had it coming. But … for doin’ this to you.”

Riley heaved a sigh. “It’s not your fault Spike – not really. It’s not like you went out on some vigilante mission.”

“No. I was …”

It nearly choked Spike that this, of all things, might be his undoing: lose him everything.

“… was just trying to do the right thing, what you’d want. Really trying. And I fucked it up.” He dragged the back of his hand across his eyes. “If I hadn’t been so bloody angry, maybe I’d have stopped to think – found a way to save the girl without getting blood on my hands. Making you an accessory and all.”

He glanced at Riley. The bloke seemed calmer now – good thing one of them was. As for himself: his hands were still shaking, and he was finding it hard to stand still, and not wear holes in the floor.

“You made a split-second call,” Riley said, spreading his hands, palms upward, as if weighing the arguments in them. “You knew what those guys had done. You wanted to make sure they didn’t kill another innocent person. And I guess they wouldn’t have stopped if you’d just asked them politely.”

“Not a snowflake’s,” Spike said. “They’d have offed me as soon as look at me, and at least one of them knew how to do it.”

“I’m very glad you didn’t give them the chance,” Riley said, giving Spike’s arm a brief squeeze.

It was the first time Riley’d touched him since finding out what he’d done. Perhaps there was still hope.

“What about heartbeats?” Riley asked him, putting on his ‘officer head.’ “Could you hear any heartbeats when you left them?”

Spike thumped the wall with the side of his fist. “Don’t know. I was too distracted.”

“Will any of them be able to identify you? Any that …”

“Any that I didn’t kill?” Spike said bluntly. “It’s okay Riley, you can say it. I know what I am. And to answer you question – one might recognize me – and maybe the girl, too – but only in vamp-face.”

“Well, let’s try and keep that under wraps for a while, okay?”

Riley touched Spike’s face – stroked the ridges away – and Spike pressed his forehead against Riley’s hand, grateful for any contact; any hint that he wasn’t cast out – at least not yet.

“You think anyone else saw what happened? Followed you?”

“Not likely. Took a walk across the rooftops,” Spike said, then added thoughtfully: “At least if forensics find any of my DNA, they’ll think it’s a mistake.”

“Why’s that?” Riley asked him.

“Belongs to someone that’s been dead over a century. That should confuse the hell out of ’em.”

“Good point,” Riley said. “You know what? I think we should just lay low for tonight. Leave tomorrow evening, when we planned.”

“We?” Spike said tentatively.

“Well, yeah.” Riley frowned. “You and me. Who else?”

“And … if we find out I’ve killed one of them … all of them? What if I’ve really done it, Riley?” Spike felt his throat tighten: trying to stop him from saying what he had to say. He hoped he could stand to hear the answer. “You can live with that? With me?”

“Well, I won’t be bursting into song with joy if there’s been fatalities, but – ‘better or worse’, remember?” Disappointment clouded Riley’s voice. “What, you didn’t think I’d stand by you? After everything?”

Riley tilted Spike’s chin up. “Hey.”

Spike could hardly bear to see the love in his partner’s eyes. It made him want to curl up and hide, like the brainless, unworthy worm he undoubtedly was.

“I can take a separate room tonight if –”

“Please don’t do that.”

“Wouldn’t you rather –”

“No. I wouldn’t,” Riley said firmly. “And anyway, we don’t wanna draw attention. We should just behave normally. Well, normally for us, anyway.”

“Okay,” Spike said with a nod. “I’ll go get cleaned up then.”

Grabbing his bag, he went to the bathroom to take a shower, and for once, despite what they’d agreed – business as usual – Riley didn’t join him.

Good thing too.

Spike stayed under the hot spray for a very long time, and – too out-of-sorts to care that he was playing out a cliché – he spent the whole of that time washing. Then, rather than wandering out with a towel around his waist, he put on fresh clothes from the bag he’d taken in with him, before going back into the bedroom.

Riley came to him at once, pulled him towards the bed and made him sit down.

“Oh,” Spike said. “What …?”

Riley knelt on the floor in front of him. “This – what happened tonight – doesn’t change _anything_ between us. You got that?”

Spike nodded. “Got it.”

Riley took Spike’s hands between his own, and rubbed them like he was trying to warm them. His hand happened to brush against Spike’s groin, and it was suddenly very obvious, to both of them, how hard he was.

“Oh …” Spike pulled his hands away, and put them in his lap to cover himself. “Sorry. Bloody inappropriate reflex – can’t help it.”

“I know,” Riley said, sitting beside Spike on the bed, and putting his hand on him. “Let me take care of that for you.”

And it would have been easy to give in. He was grateful for the offer, and – despite the assurance Riley had just given – he still craved further proof that it wasn’t all over between them; but it didn’t seem right, not after the trouble he’d caused, so Spike removed Riley’s hand from his fly.

Instead, he pulled Riley’s arm around his shoulders, rubbing his thumb anxiously in the palm of Riley’s hand, and huddling against his comforting bulk. He’d have crawled inside him if he could.

“Just switch on the goggle-box, Mate.”

Without letting go of him, Riley reached for the remote. “Something particular you wanna see?”

“Local news – might tell us something.”

“Oh. Of course. Good thinking.”

Both wrapped up in their thoughts, they watched for a while in silence. Riley was the first to break it.

“You know, if they’d been demons, I wouldn’t have given a second thought to what you did. But because they were human, I freaked out. I’m sorry. I should know better. There’s more to being human than … well, being human.”

Spike didn’t answer for a while. At last, he said carefully, “That’s very … politically correct of you. And you’re not wrong. But I don’t think it’s safe for you to say stuff like that to me ... it’s too confusing. Maybe later, when I’ve got my bearings. Right now, I’ve just gotta learn to remember – try not to kill anyone. Even the bad guys.”

“That’s a good rule of thumb,” Riley said, with guarded relief.

Spike nodded. “Guess I just … forgot about how there’s always consequences when someone gets killed. Never had to worry about it before.”

“Well, like I said, trying’s good. But I’m not going to ask you to make any rash promises. You need to defend yourself – or someone else – you do what you have to, okay?”

He hugged Spike closer. “Just take it one day at a time. Do your best.”

Spike snorted. “‘Do my best’ eh? What do you know? I’m the world’s oldest cub-scout.”

~~

At around five in the morning, Spike’s night’s work was the breaking news. Spike sat forward, staring at the screen, as the newscaster reported that three men the police suspected of being serial rapists – possibly killers – were now under formal arrest in hospital. As yet, only one of them was conscious – the one who’d phoned for an ambulance.

The tension eased out of Spike’s shoulders. At least no one had died. He leaned back, moulding himself to Riley’s chest.

The men had ended up at the same ER where a hotel worker had been admitted just an hour earlier, babbling about how she’s been set upon by a gang, but ‘some huge guy, like Batman’ had swooped in from the sky, and put her three attackers out of action.

The police officer being interviewed was clearly sceptical about the timely intervention of a comic book superhero, and suggested that the supposed rescuer might actually be a fourth gang member who had fallen out with his fellows, and was still ‘out there somewhere.’

“Oh, well done, Fox Mulder,” Spike said, rolling his eyes. “So much for wanting to believe. Just as well, I suppose. Guess no one round here helps the helpless.”

“Very few,” Riley agreed. “Here, or anywhere.”

A vehicle found near the scene and matching a description given by witnesses to previous attacks was being examined by forensics.

“Well if that doesn’t convict ’em, I’m a monkey’s uncle,” Spike said, starting to unlace his boots.

At last he felt sufficiently comfortable to get undressed, but he turned away from Riley while he stripped, and quickly got under the covers. Riley followed suit, but Spike kept to his own side of the bed, and lay staring at the ceiling.

“Hey,” Riley said. He leaned over and kissed him softly; but Spike couldn’t bring himself to respond in kind.

“Please, Riley …” he said quietly.

“Please what?” Riley pulled back, concerned. “You don’t want me to kiss you?”

“Don’t … don’t just forgive me so easy. You should be angry with me. It’ll be easier for me if you’re angry.”

“I’m not angry,” Riley said. “I can’t be angry with you. Why should I? If I don’t forgive you, how can I forgive myself, for all the demons I put down, just because of what they looked like – without even knowing for sure whether they meant any harm.”

Spike thought of Clem – harmless, warm-hearted, bumbling Clem, who’d somehow contrived to save him from the sunrise – and wondered if he was still alive, or had fallen foul of the Initiative before it went belly-up, or even the Slayer if she was having a bad day.

“Feels like I’m standing in the middle of a bloody minefield, with my boots on fire,” Spike said, turning onto his stomach and resting his head on his hands.

“That’s called life,” Riley said, laying a hand on his shoulder. “You’ll be okay. Everything worked out.”

“‘All is for the best in this, the best of possible worlds’, eh?” Spike shook his head. “It worked out. This time, maybe,” he said abruptly, propping himself up on his forearms. “But when we go back – if you still want me to come back with you – we have to tell them. Sarah and Josh, I mean. Not about this, but … what I am.”

Riley leaned up on one elbow, and gave Spike a doubtful look.

“Your folks were fine about the total absence of a womb in this relationship, and good on them for it. But _this_ – they don’t know my heart’s not even beating and it’s not fair on them.”

Spike rolled over on his side, away from his partner. “I can’t lie to ’em any more Riley.”

“You haven’t lied,” Riley said. “Not really.”

Spike shot a look of reproach over his shoulder. “Oh,_ please_. ‘I need a special diet.’ ‘I don’t go out in the sun because I burn easily.’ I don’t think I can stand it, if I have to keep coming out with such whopping porkies.”

Riley laughed. “I guess it’s not the whole truth. But everyone keeps secrets, Spike. Need-to-know basis has served us pretty well so far. Military family’s used to it. And now you have the Gem, there’s even less reason –”

“The Gem’s one of the reasons I _have_ to tell them,” Spike said, turning to face Riley once more: patient but insistent. “Before, they could have worked it out for themselves, if they’d really had a mind to. For all I know, they have their suspicions already, and they’re just too polite to say anything.”

“Well, you know Mid-Westerners,” Riley said, with a self-deprecating smile.

“But think about it, Riley. My chip’s gone, and with the Gem, what chance have they got if I flip out? They’re not even safe in daylight. Need-to-know works both ways here. Right now I feel like a loaded gun with the safety off. _ I need them_ to know.”

“Can’t I be your safety?” Riley said.

Spike cocked his head, thinking about it.

“You’re right in a way. I care for whomever you care for. But you know better than anyone what a temperamental sod I can be. What if we hit a rough patch, and what you care about’s not enough? One thing I do know. If they’ve made a choice to trust me – not just for your sake, but knowing what I am – there’s no way on earth I could harm them. And you – you ought to trust your folks to make that choice, not keep them in the dark. I want to be real to them – I want them to be real to me – and that won’t happen while this secret stands between us.”

Spike could see he was finally getting his point across, but Riley still looked ready to try and talk him out of it, so he used his final shot.

“And there’s something else. Didn’t ask to be a vampire, but it’s what I am, and I don’t want to be ashamed of it around them any more. Don’t want you to be ashamed of me either.”

“I’m not,” Riley insisted. “I’m not ashamed of you. No way. Actually, I’m proud of you.”

Somewhat abashed, Spike nudged him with his shoulder. “Really?”

“Sure I am, Always have been. And it can’t have been easy for you – fitting in – I know that. But I’m Covert Ops. Guy, remember?” Riley looked embarrassed. “I know it’s selfish of me, but … you already get on so well with my folks. It’s like they’ve known you for years. I think I kind-of like that there’s this thing I know about you, that they don’t.”

That was when Spike knew how to get his way.

“Don’t worry, love,” he said, edging closer, and running a fingertip down the centre of Riley’s chest; finally ready to accept some much-needed relief. “There’s plenty things you know about me that your mum and dad’ll never find out.”

So Riley took him in hand at last, and when Spike came, he gave it up like a sacrifice, moaning, “Sorry, so sorry …”

As day dawned, they were both able to sleep.

~~

“‘Like Batman’ was it?” Spike said, as they were getting ready to set out for the final drive the next evening. “Think I’ll give up wearing this thing for a bit.” He rolled his coat up and packed it in one of the duffels. “It’s past time. Don’t need it.”

“Here,” Riley said, tossing him one of his sweaters: “You’ll get cold.”

There was a mischievous grin on his face.

Spike caught the pale mauve item and held up with a look of amusement. Then he put it on, assumed a beatific smile, closed his eyes, and – cocooned in Riley’s scent – slumped down in the passenger seat, trying very hard not to look like Batman, in a lilac sweater. Soon, he slept.

No one noticed their departure, or stopped them crossing the State line.

~~


	15. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Riley and Spike arrive back at the farm.

They drew up in front of the farm at around ten in the evening. All the lights were on to welcome them; Spike felt a strange mixture of relief and trepidation, as Riley killed the engine, and they got out of the car.

Riley had just grabbed a couple of their bags from the back seat, when a silent canine projectile cannoned into his legs by way of greeting, nearly knocking him off his feet. She didn’t bark: just made whining sounds in her throat, and pressed her head against Riley’s thigh.

“Jess! Hey Girl!”

Riley dropped to his haunches to greet her, ruffling the fur around her neck, and just for a moment, Spike found the urge to push her aside, and compete for the attention that was rightfully his, almost overpowering.

He shook his head at himself. Jealous of a dog: how pathetic was that? Wasn’t her fault she’d belonged to Riley, when he, Spike, hadn’t even been a blip on Riley’s radar. He could hardly blame her for being devoted to the man. And it was just hard cheese that Jess was a constant reminder of his own failure to keep his long-lost cocker, Cecily, safe.

Resolving to do the grown-up thing, and make friends with Jess, Spike took a step closer, trailed a hand down, and petted her head.

She didn’t pay him any mind. Tonight she only had eyes – or nose – for Riley.

Spike sighed.

Riley cast him a questioning look then glanced towards the house.

Spike sniffed loudly, braced himself, and nodded. “Ready,” he confirmed.

“I’ll just go and –”

“Yeah, okay.” Spike said. “I’ll wait here.”

So Riley went towards the house, and Jess went with him: never losing contact with him, even for a second; cowering just a little, and frantically thrashing her tail. It must be embarrassing, being a dog. Just as well tails weren’t a part of the vampire’s anatomy.

Spike shifted from one foot to the other.

Riley’d left him waiting, alone, outside, in the dark. That was okay. After all, it was what they’d agreed. He could hear Riley diverting Sarah from coming outdoors by asking her for some aspirins, and a Band-Aid – like he didn’t know where those were kept – before saying, “Where’s Dad?”

Spike slapped his arms against himself.

~~

At last, Josh ambled out: a beer in one hand, and a candle on a saucer in the other.

“Hello Stranger,” he said with a wry grin. “Hear you got yourself into a bit of a scrape. Needed my boy to charge in, and haul your ass out of the fire.”

“Yeah … sorry about –”

Josh waved a dismissive hand. “Do him good. A man needs to keep his hand in.”

Josh was squinting at him: evidently taking in the pastel sweater.

“You look … different. Where’s that coat of yours? What have you dragged me out here for anyways? Can’t be you wanna ask for my son’s hand in marriage, because we did that already. And I know damn well he won’t be wearin’ white.”

Still standing at the bottom of the porch steps, Spike shoved his hands in his pockets. “Not exactly, Mr Finn.”

“Well, this better be good,” Josh said, looking at him quizzically. “And quick! It’s damn cold out there.”

Spike reached up and offered him a padded envelope.

Josh set down the candle – though not the beer; took the envelope, and emptied the contents onto the table. Three crosses fell out, followed by a packet of herbs, some sticks of incense, and a sheet of paper, with neat but tiny writing on both sides.

Josh huffed and sat down. “You get turned around?” he said, giving Spike a suspicious glance. ’Cos Haiti’s thataway.” He pointed vaguely south-east. “This here’s Iowa. We gave up voodoo around these parts, a good ten, maybe fifteen, years ago.”

“Keep these things safe,” Spike replied seriously. “You might want them when you hear what I have to tell you.”

Josh grunted. “You gone joined a cult?”

“No – nothing like that. But I’ve not been entirely honest with you Mr. Finn, and I’m right sorry for it. Thing is –” … and this had to be the understatement of the century … “I’m not like most other blokes you might meet.”

Josh snorted like a bull with a wasp up its nose. “You don’t say!” he spluttered. “Well, you’re English, for a start, but you know what? We’d figured that out already. We didn’t say anything, in case you was embarrassed about it, and we try not to hold it against you.”

This was difficult, and Josh’s lame but good-humoured ribbing was only making it harder to do the deed: tell Josh Finn something that might alienate both himself and Riley from their comfortable co-existence.

“And I know you’ve been gone a week or two,” Josh went on. “But I hope you haven’t forgot my first name. It won’t wear out with use.” He took a swig from the bottle, and held it out to Spike. “And get up here. My throat’s hoarse, from yellin’ to make myself heard.”

Spike sighed, went up the steps, took a drink from the proffered bottle, and sat down on one of the porch chairs, opposite Josh. He prepared himself to try again, but this was going to be the last time he’d do it with words.

“Mr F– sorry, Josh. Remember how, when we first met, you said I must be older than I look?”

Josh nodded. “I do recall that, yeah.”

“Well, you weren’t wrong. I’m a great deal older than I look. And it’s because … well, how would you react if I told you there are things – things some people would call supernatural, but that really exist – and that … I’m one of them?”

“I’d make you a black coffee, and tell you to stop taking those funny sweets from strangers.”

Spike shook his head wearily. “There’s no easy way to say this, so I’m just gonna demonstrate.”

Light flickered from the candle on the saucer, illuminating the ridges of Spike’s forehead, as he let his demon face come slowly to the surface.

Josh blew out a puff of air. Half to himself, he muttered, “That’s one hell of a party trick.”

“No trick, Josh. I’m a vampire.”

“Well, I’ll be …” Josh cocked his head, staring at Spike, examining his changed countenance.

Spike tried to look as unthreatening as he could.

“So you are. Well ain’t that the darnedest thing.” Slowly – like he was drawing a weapon he didn’t intend to use – Josh took a cigar out of his jacket, and lit it from the candle.

“I’ve seen your kind before – back in the jungle. Couple of ’em – well, of you, I guess – came into camp one night, took two of the boys. Dragged ’em off before we knew what was goin’ on. We fired on ’em … went after ’em, but …”

He shook his head. “Found one of ours the next day, and it sure spooked the hell out of some of the boys. Looked like the poor young feller’d had all the blood drained out of him. There were teeth marks too. Wasn’t pretty, but back then, we just reckoned it was some new game Charlie’d come up with, to mess with our heads.”

“I’m sorry about that,” Spike said warily.

“You got no call to be,” Josh said. “It weren’t you.”

“That’s as may be,” Spike replied. “But I’m just as dangerous as the vampires that took your men. Or I might be. Don’t rightly know yet. When I first came here, there was an inhibitor – a microchip in my brain – that stopped me from harming humans. But while I was away, for better or worse, I had it removed. That’s why I’m telling you … what I am … so you know –”

Something wet and cold touched Spike’s hand, and he yelped, and almost leapt out of his chair, before he realised what it was.

“Oh! Hi, Jess.”

Her nose, pressed into his palm in greeting, had dealt a mortal blow to his ‘Creature of the Night’ routine, but it touched him strangely that she’d taken the time to welcome another errant pack member, albeit one who’d barely acknowledged her existence up to now. Maybe she’d missed him after all – if somewhat less than she’d missed Riley.

He scratched behind her ears, and tried to regain his composure under Josh’s amused regard, and pick up the thread of what he’d been saying: something about being a danger to society, wasn’t it?

Yeah …

“You should know what I am – what I can do – before you decide whether to risk having me in the house. If not, just follow the instructions on that sheet of paper, and I won’t be able to enter your home again, without your say-so.”

“So … let me get this straight,” Josh said, hauling himself up higher in his chair. “Leavin’ aside the question of why I should set any store by these instructions you’ve given me, if you’re so damned untrustworthy – you’ve been living with us for a year and more, and all of a sudden, just because some gizmo’s been taken out your head, you think you might, what? Go postal, and drain us all dry?”

“Somethin’ along those lines, yeah.”

“I’ll thank you not to insult me so, Boy,” Josh said sharply. “You think I didn’t decide straight off what manner of man you were, when I first laid eyes on you? Whether you were fit to share our house – share _my son’s bed_ – under my roof?”

Spike would have blushed if he could.

“You think I don’t take into account the risks of inviting a stranger in? Let me tell you something, Spike. When I first saw you, you looked just like a regular person. Sure, you painted your fingernails, but you were near enough a regular person in my book. So I already knew you were dangerous. You know why? Because regular people – human beings – they’re the most dangerous creatures you’ll ever meet. You think I’m not dangerous?”

Spike looked at Josh – at his hard, callused hands, lean frame, and piercing eyes – and didn’t answer.

“You think Sarah isn’t dangerous? Oh, on paper, or when you talk to her, that girl’s a peacenik – unreconstructed. On paper. But I wouldn’t cross her. Put a knife or a gun in her hand, and I wouldn’t like to see what became of anyone harmed one of hers.”

Josh gave Spike another hard stare, and Spike nodded slowly.

“You know Rebecca as well as most. Don’t even think to try and tell me _she’s_ not dangerous. That girl has the brains to poison us all by slow degrees, if she chose. My son Riley – outside the Government, he’s the most dangerous man I know. He don’t flaunt it. He doesn’t need to. You won’t see it comin’ and you’ll never know what took you out.”

“But … I _am_ a vampire –” Spike protested. “I only have to get my teeth into –”

“Yeah, you got me quaking in my boots with that one,” Josh dismissed the threat with a cavalier wave of his hand. “But if what I see on the TV’s anything like the truth, I only have to get a bitty bit of wood into _you_. In case you hadn’t noticed, there’s no shortage of wood around here.”

He gestured casually at the area outside the circle of light on the porch, then let his arm drop to his side, keeping his gaze fixed on Spike. “Fence posts, pitchfork handles, wooden spoons –”

There was a flash of movement, and Spike looked down, to find a fence-post poised two inches from his chest. Jess whined, and Spike deliberately relaxed his death grip on the arms of his chair. He'd had a fair idea what was coming, and been determined to hold his nerve, but still … the old boy had been a mite faster than he'd expected.

"And I know where the heart is," Josh went on calmly. "You trust me not to use this?" He raised an eyebrow.

"Well, actually –"

“You should.”

Josh set the end of the post on the ground with an emphatic thump, then stood up, and went to lean it against the porch rail, a few feet away, out of easy reach, before he resumed his seat.

“Now you tell me something. Before, when you had this … inhibitor – would that have stopped you payin’ someone to gun us down, or burning the house down around us?”

“Well, no, but –”

“Would it have stopped you sowing discontent between my son and me? Or his mother?”

“I … don’t think so –”

“Would it have stopped you from letting ’Becca come to harm through negligence, all those times we’ve left you sit with her?”

“I’d never –” Spike blurted.

“That’s my point!” Josh slapped the flat of his hand on the table. “And why would you?”

“Well ... I wouldn’t. I know I wouldn’t,” Spike conceded. “But since the inhibitor was removed, I’ve done …” He scratched the back of his neck, as he looked for the right phrase. “Questionable things.” He looked at his hands, not meeting Josh’s eyes.

_“Questionable things?”_ Josh’s contempt was palpable. “Who hasn’t? Vietnam was no Teddy Bears Picnic, as I’m sure you recall, even for those of us who were nowhere near Pinkville. You done anything I wouldn’t have?”

Spike was silent, considering. How would Josh have behaved, if he’d seen what Spike had seen – the girl on her knees, begging for her life – and known what he’d known? Would he have turned in his ploughshare, and unsheathed his sword?

“I don’t know,” Spike said thoughtfully. “Maybe not.”

“I don’t doubt you have your moments,” Josh said, staring at the flickering blade of light from the candle wick. “We all do. But there’s no way on this earth you’ll convince me that you’re gonna suddenly decide to chow down on us, when we’ve done you no wrong.”

Josh paused for a moment, frowning. “What _have_ you been livin’ on, if you don’t mind my asking? I guess it’s true, that your kind – vampires – need to drink blood? Them’s not just folk tales?”

“No, not folk tales. I’ve been living on animal blood.” As an after-thought Spike added, “Not from your animals! From the butcher.”

Josh stared at him penetratingly.

“Mostly.”

“And?”

“Riley sometimes …” Spike shifted in his seat. “You know, that’s personal. But since we’re talking about it … how we met. His unit captured me. They were starving me. If he hadn’t done what he did … been so gracious as to give me some of his blood – I’d have been done for.”

Josh nodded slowly. “I see. Yes … he’s the kind of man who’d do that.” His face took on a distracted look – like he was seeing phantoms in the candle flame. “A better kind of man.”

He studied Spike some more, and chewed a quick on his thumb. “At least he’s not fading away – I can see that well enough.”

“I’m careful. We’re careful – always will be.”

“Is Riley gonna be like you?” Josh asked bluntly. “In the end? Will he be a vampire too?”

What did Josh want to hear? Did he really want the truth?

“Not by accident …” Spike said tentatively. “And not because of anything we’ve done up to now. He’d have to be very sure he wanted it, but … maybe. Not soon – but maybe. Don’t think I can live without him.” Spike ducked his head. “But if you decide to do that ritual – exclude me from your home – I won’t take it hard. Can’t blame you. Not with what you know now. I could still stay on in the cabin – that is, if you were okay with it. But you’d always have your home to retreat to, if anything … If I –”

“Have I ever done anything to offend you?” Josh stabbed his cigar in Spike’s direction. “Treated you unfairly, or made you feel like you weren’t welcome here?”

“No! Never!” Spike said, shocked into vehemence. “You – Sarah – you’ve treated me like … like I belong here. Like family.”

“Well, I’m relieved to hear that. Because it’s what you are.” Josh took a pensive draw on his cigar. “Guess it can’t have been easy on you, us not knowing about your … I don’t know what you call it … condition. If there’s anything you need, to be more comfortable here, you don’t stand on ceremony, you just tell us straight out, from now on. There’s to be no doubt about it – this is your home, come hell or high water, only exception being if you were to do some grievous wrong against another member of the family.” He looked Spike full in the eye. “And I know you won’t do that.”

They both knew the statement carried a warning as well as an endorsement; but then Josh laughed ruefully, breaking the tension, and flicking ash onto the boards.

“Besides, have you any idea the hell my life would become, if Sarah found out I’d kept one of her kids from her kitchen?”

At hearing himself described as ‘one of her kids’, Spike’s game-face fell away.

“That’s exactly why I had to come to you first,” he said candidly. “I think Sarah’d let me in, whether I was a vampire, a werewolf or the Jolly Green Giant. But it’s your home too. Last thing I want is to cause strife between you. Upset the lady of the house, or put her in a quandary.”

Josh took another long draw on his cigar, and blew a huge smoke ring. There was no sound for a few moments, except the rustling of night creatures under the porch, and the wind in the trees.

Finally Josh said, “Damn! Are you queer English vampires all such drama queens?”

Spike shrugged. “Probably just me,” he admitted.

“Well, get inside, before I change my mind,” Josh said. “Sarah’s near wore a hole right through that kitchen table.”

~~

Spike stopped just outside the kitchen doorway, in two minds: go in and face the music, or hide in the cabin, pleading the headaches?

Riley and Sarah were seated at the table; he watched them for a moment, in silence. They were in earnest conversation, but his name wasn’t mentioned. Did Sarah already know? Had Riley filled her in, or would he have to go through the whole revelation thing again?

He wanted to go in. The kitchen still looked the same – familiar and welcoming: earthenware and stone jars jostling with –

… his thermos, standing open on the worktop.

He felt his mouth drop open. The microwave pinged, and Sarah looked up, then straight at him.

“Just in time,” she said, as though he’d been away for hours, rather than weeks.

Everything seemed to slow down, as she took a mug from the microwave, came to the door, and offered it to him. He stared at the contents: blood – at body temperature.

And he’d thought he was so cool.

The regularity of Sarah’s heartbeat showed her unafraid.

That was good, wasn’t it?

It seemed too good to be true. His earlier confidence in her acceptance was overtaken by the fear that if he reached for the mug, she would fling the blood in his face – her eyes blazing with hatred and contempt. A lesser fear: that she would flinch away; that he would see a taint of mistrust – even disgust – in her eyes.

Like a sleepwalker, he put out a hand to take the mug, and as he did, Sarah smiled and touched his arm, breaking the bubble of tension around him. Her expression told him what he’d been longing for: ‘everything you need is here.’

“Welcome home, Spike,” she said. “It’s good to see you.”

He swallowed, nodded briefly, muttered, “You too” – and sat down at the table.

Sarah stood behind him, rested her hands on his shoulders, and gave a reassuring squeeze.

Spike breathed a sigh, and closed his eyes for a moment.

When he opened them and went to pick up his mug, the carvings on the tabletop caught his attention. He searched for the place where Riley had recorded _his_ name one time, while he’d been working in Cleveland. But as he scanned the surface, he was hard-pushed to find the original mark, because since he’d sat here last, his name had been carved into the wood so many times …

Overwhelmed, he flicked a private glance at Riley that said, _‘have you seen?’_ and Riley smiled, and nodded, as if this was all as he’d expected.

Then Riley pointed to a spot near the middle of the table; Spike couldn’t suppress a soft ‘Oh!’ of surprise.

Their names were cut at right angles – Riley’s, vertical, Spike’s, horizontal – intersecting at the ‘I’, and surrounded by a ragged heart-shape. Spike traced the rough carving with his finger, as if in a dream.

Then Josh came in from the hallway. “’Becca did that one,” he said, as he sat down at the table. He exchanged what seemed to be a reasonably sanguine glance with Sarah.

Spike drank his blood quietly: grateful to Riley for running interference with questions about the farm, the weather, and neighbourhood gossip, to break the subtle, polite, and inevitable interrogation into manageable pieces.

They were doing their damnedest not to pry – not to swamp him with questions – but they wanted to _know_, and he couldn’t really blame them for it.

Now the truth had sunk in; now Sarah had seen Spike drinking the warm blood she had – with such sang froid – offered him, her initial bravado had given way to wonder, and he could feel her eyes upon him the whole time.

Whenever he glanced in her direction, she quickly looked away. Then she would get up, on the pretext of handing the cookies around, or making yet more tea and coffee, and when she did, Spike would feel her brush against him, or lay a hand on him.

Nothing unusual about it, except that it was deliberate: as though she needed to assure herself that he was real. Each time, Spike turned his warmest, most reassuring smile upon her.

“Stop man-handling the boy!” Josh reproached her. “You’re embarrassin’ him.”

She smiled sheepishly. “But it’s so … it’s _Spike_. And we _know_ him. But it’s … like we have a legend in the house. I mean, the whole Dracula thing …”

Spike instantly roused himself. “Dracula isn’t all that!” he said, bristling slightly.

Sarah’s eyes widened. “You mean –?”

“Funny story I can tell you –”

~~

As the night wore on, Josh and Sarah gleaned enough fragments of information to put together an edited – somewhat sanitized – version of Spike’s history, or to write ‘Vampires for Dummies.’ Even Riley got answers to some of the questions he’d been too afraid to ask.

Miraculous as it seemed, no one fainted, or tried to stake him, as a result of some of the things he had to reveal, and Spike – onto the hard stuff now: tea with two tea bags – began to spend less time studying the contents of his mug. His earlier reticence was replaced by intense relief. The lamest joke was capable of sending him into fits of laughter, and Riley was looking at him strangely.

That was when Spike decided that the Finns had got their money’s worth out of him, for one night, at least.

“Okay, Kiddies,” he said, pushing his chair back with a decisive thump. He stood up and rubbed his hands together. “This is a working farm, not a holiday camp. You lot have to be up early, and it’s way past your bedtimes!”

They laughed, and Sarah shook her finger at him. “That’s enough cheek from you, young man. You may be over a hundred, but you’re not too old to spank.”

Josh nearly choked on his coffee, and everyone pretended very hard that she hadn’t said it.

~~

As they left the main house, Spike snaked an arm around Riley’s waist, and leaned into him. “Quite something, your folks,” he said contemplatively.

“They’re okay, I guess.”

Riley’s studied nonchalance would have earned him a cuff from Spike, except that he wasn’t ready to let go of him. Instead, he just snorted, and pulled him in closer.

By unspoken assent, they stopped to look up at the scattering of stars. The longer they contemplated it, the more intricate – the more wondrous – it became.

“Dru used to rattle on interminably about what the stars were saying to her,” Spike said. “Half of it made some kind of sense. The trick was, knowing which half.” He blew out a breath. “God, she was hard work sometimes.”

“What about me?” Riley ventured. “Am I hard work?”

He was fishing, but Spike figured he was entitled. “You? You’re asking me if _you’re_ hard work?” he said innocently.

“Yeah. I’m askin’.”

Spike laid his head on Riley’s shoulder. “I never had it so good, and you know it,” he said.

And as Spike listened to Riley’s heartbeat, he knew – without having to look – that there was a smile as broad as Iowa on Riley’s face.

~~

“Look at that,” Spike said when they got inside the cabin. “Your mum’s lit a fire for us, bless ’er.”

Untended, it was still glowing, despite the late hour, and the air was fragrant from the pine cones that nestled among the coals; nevertheless, Spike found that he was shivering. He moved the fireguard, and went to stand as near to the hearth as he dared.

“Cold?” Riley asked him, concerned.

He was: a little – but that wasn’t it: not really. He was home at last – really home – where it was safe to let go. “I think it’s just … you know …”

Riley nodded. “You need to get those clothes off,” he said, in apparent defiance of logic.

Spike went along with the insanity, and stripped naked in front of the fire.

Riley quickly shed his clothes as well, and came to stand before him, unassuming in his nakedness. His chest was heaving, and Spike could feel the heat of him, as he blushed under Spike’s scrutiny.

He placed a hand on Riley’s breastbone: not to hold him back, but to reassure himself that this was one dream from which he wasn’t going to wake.

“Don’t know how I deserve this – any of it,” Spike said.

“Shhh,” Riley soothed him, looking down on him with earnest eyes. “I told you – you don’t have to deserve it. It’s yours. Nothing, and nobody, can ever take this from you – your home, or me, either.”

“Nothin’ to worry about then, eh?” Spike said, letting a faint smile touch his lips.

He felt the slide of Riley’s fingertips down his left side, to where his hand hung limply; felt Riley take it between both of his.

“Nothing at all,” Riley said. “Iowa Promise.”

Riley pressed his lips to Spike’s palm, then led him to their bed. Spike pulled the covers back, and sat down, and Riley knelt before him on the rug. He looked down at Spike’s length, as though he’d never really seen him before, then took him in hand, pushing his foreskin back just a little, licking and kissing the head of his cock.

Spike’s chest tightened. He felt the surge – the sharpening and quickening of the transformation.

“There you are,” Riley said, tracing the ridges on Spike’s brow. Then he turned his attentions lower, stroking the crease behind Spike’s sac with his thumb, and rubbing the pad across his entrance.

Spike arched, and flexed, and sucked in a breath.

“On the bed.” Riley’s tone, soft but commanding, expected obedience, but Spike – a little mesmerised – made no move: just stared at him, until Riley took a firmer hold on him.

“Get up,” Riley ordered him again, pressing a little with his thumb.

Spike snapped out of it, with a gasp. “How high Sir?” he responded eagerly, his voice hoarse. He flicked his tongue over his lips.

Riley edged him backwards, till his positioning with his back against the headboard allowed him to do nothing other than be served.

“Better,” Riley said, nodding in satisfaction.

The air was heady with the scent of Riley’s desire for him. Spike thrummed in anticipation; Riley clearly had plans, but now the man had him where he wanted, he seemed in no hurry: dropping chaste kisses on Spike’s chest and flanks; running his hands across Spike’s stomach, tracing the outlines of the muscles like he was some sacred object.

He didn’t feel like one. Spike shifted, nudging his cock against Riley’s. “…please …”

But Riley paused, just breathing, and looking, and murmured softly, “You’re so pale … pale as milk.”

Then Spike found himself filling up, because no one had ever looked at him the way this man did. He had to blink, and turn his head away, so Riley wouldn’t see that his eyes were shining.

Covering, he growled, “C’mon Riley,” and flexed his hips, then Riley lost it, and his hands and mouth were everywhere – everywhere but there – kissing and caressing, until Spike was nearly senseless with it.

He laid his hands on Riley’s shoulders, because something had to ground him, but he didn’t grip, or dig his nails in, because he wanted to fly as well; and just when he thought he’d never touch the ground again, he felt Riley’s hand on his chest, keeping him in place while – at last – the other hand slid down, and went to work between his thighs.

And all the while Riley murmured soft encouragement and praise: ‘yeah, beautiful … like that … God, I love you so much … you’re gonna come so hard for me …” and Spike jerked and pitched under Riley’s tender assaults, biting his lip, and tasting blood, as Riley did as he would: taking possession, holding him down, and spreading him wide, and lavishing on him every attention his great love could devise.

As though he had something to prove, Spike made no sound, save for rasping breaths, and soft moans, that floated like feathers on the air, and Riley played him: bringing him off with a casual touch; making him come with a word, or jerking him off roughly, until he was sore, but still aching to be played once more.

When he lay panting, in near-sated exhaustion, Riley kissed the inside of his thigh, and asked – with honest concern – “Had enough?”

But Spike found himself hopelessly hard again, just from seeing Riley looking up from between his thighs, so innocent, and yet so damn sexy.

“You trying to kill me with orgasms?” he said feebly. “’Cos, I’m telling you … it won’t work. You wanna finish me off, just stake me now.”

“There’s only one kind of staking I’m thinking of.”

There was naked want in Riley’s eyes; he’d denied himself till now, and it made Spike catch his breath to see how hard Riley was for him, and how – in spite of it – he still waited upon his word.

“Go ahead then,” he said. “You know I’m yours.”

He raised his knee, opening and exposing himself, and slid his hand down the back of his thigh, and then lower, where all the nerves were already raw. He touched himself for Riley, and closed his eyes, and moaned – knowing Riley was watching with unabashed desire.

With a catch in his voice, he spoke once more the lines of the sonnet – the one he’d defiled by his abject capitulation in the Cleveland dungeons – purging the words of their evil association, even as he purged himself of that vile sin: that lack of faith that Riley would come for him.

“Being your slave, what should I do but tend upon the hour and time of your desire …”

“No. Not a slave,” Riley cut in swiftly, though his voice was heavy with emotion. “Never that. You’re my heart, Spike.”

Spike felt himself break open. His game-face slipped away.

~~

Drowning in those blue, blue eyes, Riley murmured, “My unicorn …”

Spike tilted his head. “I never asked you … why ’m I a unicorn?”

“Just – it’s how I saw you, when we first met. In a dream.”

“The lion and the unicorn were fighting for the crown …” Spike said dreamily, almost as if he were drugged; still languidly touching himself.

“Sometimes you’re a lion,” Riley said, stroking his forehead.

“Hmmm … lion’s like, my demon …” Spike mused. “And unicorns – they get trapped by the pure of heart – virgins … but you weren’t … _were_ you?”

Riley dropped his gaze. “No … but – I’d never been in love until I met you.”

Spike’s face shone. He hadn’t known …

“Best kind of virgin,” Spike said. “The rest – doesn’t matter at all.”

“So … are there any rules?” – Riley said artlessly – “About how to ride a unicorn?”

“You should know,” Spike replied, his eyes half-closed. “You wrote the book.”

~~

So they made love until the sky turned grey, and when the tinges of colour touched the cotton-candy clouds on the horizon, they went outside.

Spike held Riley’s hand as, for the first time he could remember, he watched the sun rise.

Then they went to the kitchen, where they could smell the coffee brewing.

 

FIN

Quotation: Shakespeare’s Sonnet 57


	16. A Glimpse of the Future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This takes place soon after the last chapter of “Reflections”, and concerns the knock-on effects of the alternate future Spike and Riley have created: specifically, what happens to Lilah, and how her gamble affects life in Sunnydale.

**Tuesday 20th February **

**Sunnydale**

Buffy was home a little early from class. The sun was bright – the sun was always bright here: hence, she supposed, the name of the place. The sun was probably afraid that all the householders would sue for misrepresentation, if it wasn’t sunny for most of the year.

She opened the front door, and called out, “Hey, Mom.” Then she turned and saw some flowers on the table beside the door. “Ooh.”

She opened the card that came with the flowers. “Thank you for a lovely evening. See you soon? Brian.”

How sweet. Did robots send flowers? Kill that thought. Mustn’t assume the worst. “Still a couple of guys gettin' it right,” she murmured.

“Hey,” she called again. “Flower-gettin' lady. Want me to pick Dawn up from school?”

There was no answer. The house was eerily quiet – no sound from the TV or radio.

Buffy glanced through into the lounge. Her mom was lying on the couch, worryingly still.

“Mom? What are you doing?”

There was no answer.

“Mom?” she said quietly, not wanting to believe the fear that was taking hold: a tightness in her chest. If she called quietly enough, her mom might just have not heard her.

“Mom?”

She took a step towards the couch.

“Mommy?”

~~  
**Wolfram &amp; Hart: LA branch**

Lilah had spent an uneasy couple of weeks, prior to Wolfram &amp; Hart’s Seventy-Five Year Review.

Everyone in the office was panicking, tidying things up, and trying – futile though it was – to cover up their more egregious mistakes.

Lilah presented a cool front, but inside she was a tight knot of fear.

She had gambled and lost: agreed to trade her life – a life which technically didn’t belong to her but to the Senior Partners – traded it to her employers’ rivals, the Powers That Be, in a failed attempt to entrap Angel. What it would mean, she couldn’t begin to imagine.

Like it or not, she was just a pawn, and a very insignificant pawn at that. At least she’d invested enough to ensure that her mother was taken care of, should anything happen to her. At least her fate mattered to no-one but herself.

So when she got the call to the White Room, she steeled her nerve, checked her make-up, and got in the lift as though she were just going to the next floor on some routine mission – to collect a file, or stab a rival in the back.

‘The White Room’ wasn’t a misnomer. And she supposed she shouldn’t have been surprised to see her mother, sitting in an armchair, knitting, in the middle of the empty space – but she was.

“Oh, hello,” the old lady said. “Have you brought my tea?”

“No, Mother, I’m sorry. I don’t have your tea. I wasn’t expecting –"

“No, I don’t suppose you were. But then, I’m not really your mother, am I? You’re nobody to me, so no harm done. You don’t even matter to yourself do you? Not enough to keep your promises. I’m disappointed in you really. Gambling with your life, and to so little purpose. Still, you always were a time-waster. A pretty waste of space.”

Lilah brushed a strand of hair from her face, and pursed her lips fretfully. She wanted to say something in her own defence, but she never could stand up for herself, against her mother.

“We could engage the Powers That Be in endless legal wranglings,” the old lady went on. “But we’ve decided it’s not worth the effort. They offered a deal, so we’ve given up our claim on you, in exchange for material advances in another reality.”

She held up a piece of paper – the one Lilah had signed in blood when she joined Wolfram &amp; Hart. “This is your life,” she said.

She blew on it, and it caught fire. “I’m sure it’ll go to someone deserving.”

Lilah’s eyes widened.

She felt suddenly cold.

And then she felt nothing at all.

~~

**Sunnydale**

Joyce raised her head from the couch. “Hi Honey. I was just taking a little nap.” She touched the side of her head.

Buffy stumbled towards her. “I thought … when I called you and you didn’t answer, it really …” She pulled herself together. “Well, it gave me a major wiggins. You wanna sleep, go lie in bed!”

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep, Buffy. I meant to pass out, and just headed for the nearest soft thing I could see.”

“Are you okay? Should I get a doctor?”

“No Buffy, I feel fine. Much better in fact. I was quite out of it there for a while – but now …”

She looked at the flowers and smiled. “I feel like my life’s just starting over!”

~~

Quotations: dialogue from “The Body” by Joss Whedon.


	17. Deleted scenes: Cordelia and David Nabbit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> These short scenes took place before the time-line was fixed in its new orientation – ie. before Chapter 9: Caritas - when other characters were also getting flashes of the parallel (canon) Buffy/Angel-verse. They were deleted because it was felt that they broke up the continuity.

**Scene 1**

“Ew!”

From a state closer to unconsciousness than sleep, after spending all day baking on the hotplate that passed as a beach at one of Maui’s more exclusive resorts, Cordelia was suddenly jolted back to reality. She sat bolt upright, accidentally flinging sand onto David Nabbit’s well-filled and well-greased stomach.

He mirrored her sudden rising, though with considerably less elegance. “What? What’s wrong?”

Slowly, fearing what she might see, Cordelia looked down at her stomach: perfectly flat. She breathed a deep sigh of relief. “Oh! Thank the PTB!”

“What? Who?”

“The Powers That Be.”

David looked nonplussed. “What are you thanking them for?”

“What am I thanking them for? I’ll tell you Mister. I’m thanking them that I’m not suddenly mystically pregnant, _again_, that’s what! First it’s a demon, then it’s an eye in the back of my head, and now this! A crazy God-Bitch-New-Age-Alien-Thing!”

“But you’re not …” he eyed her suspiciously. “Right?”

He tried to peer around her.

Cordelia glared at him, then touched the back of her head just to make sure.

“Nope! Not this time!”

As she re-arranged her towel, carefully flicking all traces of the pristine coral sand from its expanse, her eyes were drawn to a young man – hardly more than a boy – a pale-skinned, lanky teenager with dark floppy hair and girlish features. He was playing volleyball with his parents and his sister.

And she’d been quietly lusting over him since they hit the beach.

Maybe the dream had been sent to punish her for evil thoughts.

**Scene 2**

“No!”

Cordelia sat up in bed, as though on a spring.

David Nabbit nearly fell out, in his attempt to put space between himself and the crazy person. Cordelia Chase looked stricken.

“What’s wrong?”

He wanted to say ‘What’s wrong now?’ as these episodes seemed to be getting rather frequent, but it would have been impolite.

Cordelia’s eyes defocused as she remembered her dream.

“Someone took Angel’s son away. But Angel’s a vampire – he can’t have kids, so that was just crazy. And Darla attacked me – but I would never let her get close enough to do that, so that was crazy too. But there was this one part of the dream – it felt so real. A spikey guy – not Spike – said I was going to be taken up. Like a kind of angel – a girl angel, not like Angel – but I would have to wear this really unflattering robe, so I said, ‘No, thanks.’ But then I started rising off the ground and I could see everything I cared about on earth getting further and further away … Neiman Marcus looked just like a shoebox!”

Cordelia took a gulp of air.

“It was awful!”

~~


End file.
